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THE COUNTY FAIR. 

By NEIL BURGESS. 

Written from the celebrated play now 
running its second continuous season in 
New York, and booked to run a third sea- 
son in the same theater. 

The scenes are among the New Hamp- 
shire hills, and picture the bright side of 
country life. The story is full of amusing 
events and happy incidents, something 
after the style of our “Old Homestead,” 
which is having such an enormous sale. 

<^THE COUNTY FAIR” will be one 
of the great hits of the season, and should 
you fail to secure a copy you will miss a 
m literary treat. It is a spirited romance of 
town and country, and a faithful repro- 
duction of the drama, with the same unique 
, characters, the same graphic scenes, but 

wdth the narrative more artistically rounded, and completed than was 
possible in the brief limits of a dramatic representation. This touch- 
ing story effectively demonstrates that it is possible to produce a novel 
which is at once wholesome and interesting in every part, without the 
introduction of an impure thought or suggestion. Read the following 

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS: 

Mr. Neil Burgess has rewritten his play, “The County Fair,” in story 
ounds out a narrative which is comparatively but sketched in the pl^-y- It 
ti.^ first sentence to set going the memory and iniagination of thosy who have seen the 
lati 'r and whet the appetite for the rest of this hvely conception of a live dramatist. 
Broollyn Daily Eaale. 

As “The County Fair” threatens to remain in New York for a long time the general 
public oiit of town may be glad to learn that the playwright has put t^ piece into pnnt 
in the form of a story. A tale based u^_n a play may sometimes lack certain litera^ 
it nGVGi* is tli6 sort of tliiDK' ovor whicti 8-ny ohocrh fsll Rsloop. For* 
tunately’ “The County Fair” on the stage and in print is by the same ^thor, so tliere 
can be no reason for fearing that the book misses any of the pomts of the drama which 
has been so successful. — A'. Y. Herald. 



The idea of turning successful plays into novels seems to_ be getting popular. The 
laiest book of this description is a story reproducing the action and incidents of Neil 
T?iirtps<? Dlav^“The County Fair.” The tale, which is a romance based on scenes of 
home life and domestic joys and sorrows, follows closely the lines ot the drama in 
story and lAoi.— Chicago Dauy News. 

Air. Burgess’ amusing play, “The County Fair.” has been received with such favor 
that he has worked it over and expanded it into a novel of more than 200 page^ It " ill 
be enjoyed even by those who have never heard the play and still more by those who 
"haye.— Cincinnati limes-Star. 

This touching story effectively demonstrates that it is possible to 
which is at once wholesome and interesting in every part, without the introduction ot 

an impure thought or suggestion.— A (6an// Press. 

d+Y-opt At Smith have issued “The County Fair.” This is a faithful reproduction of 
the drama of that name and is an affecting and vivid story of domestic life, ]oy and 
sorrow, and rural scenes.— San Francisco Call. 

This romance is written from the play of this name and is fuU of touching incidents. 
—Evansville Jourml. . 

Tt is founded on the popular play of the same name, in which Neil Burpress, ’^vho is 
also the author of the storj', has achieved the dramatic success of the season.- PaiZ 

River Herald. 

Tli© Oo-u-ixty lE'a-ir is No. 33 of “The Select Series,” for 
sale bv all Newsdealers, or will be sent, on receipt of price, 25 cents, to any 
addreL, postpaid, by STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 25-31 Rose st., Aew \ork. 


6ENMAN THOMPSON’S OLD HOMESTEAD. 


STBEET & SMITH’S SELECT SERIES No. 28. 


JE*rice, 25 Oents« 


Some Opinions of the Press. 

*• As the probabilities are remote of the play ‘ The Old Homestead * being 
seen anywhere but in large cities it Is only fair that the story of the piece should 
be printed. Like most stories written from plays it contains a great deal which 
is not said or done on the boards, yet It Is no more verbose than such a story 
should be., and It gives some good pictures of the scenes and people who for a 
year or more have been delighting thousands nightly. Uncle Josh, Aunt Tlldy, 
Old Cy Prime, Reuben, the mythical Bill Jones, the sheriff and all the other char- 
acters are here, beside some new ones. It is to be honed that the book will make 
a large sale, not only on Its merits, but that other play owners may feel encour- 
aged to let their works be read by the many thousands who cannot hope to see 
them on the stage.”— iV. F. Herald, June 2d. 


“ Denman Thompson’s ‘The Old Homestead’ is a story 'of clouds and sunshine 
alternating over a venerat 'd home; of a grand old man, honest and blunt, who 
loves his honor as he loves his life, yet suffers the agony of the condemned in 
learning of the deplorable conduct of a wayward son; a story of country life, love 
and Jealousy, without an Impure thought, and with the healthy flavor of the 
fields In every chapter. It Is founded on Denman Thompson s drama of ‘The 
Old Homestead.’ A. F. Press, May 26th. 


“ Messrs. Street & Smith, publishers of the New TorTc WeeTcly, have brought 
out in book-form the story of ‘ The Old Homestead,’ the play which, as produced 
by Mr. Denman Thompson, has met with ach wondrous success. It will proba 
bly have a great sale, thus Justifying the foresight of the publishers in giving the 
drama this permanent Action form.”— iV. F. Morning Journal, June 2d. 

“ The popularity of Denman Thompson’s play of ‘The Old Homestead’ has 
encouraged Street & Smith, evidently with his permission, to publish a good-sized 
novel with the same title, set in the same scenes and Including the same charac- 
ters and more too. The book Is a fair match for the play in the simple good taste 
and real ability with which it is written. The publishers are Street & Smith, and 
they have gotten the volume up In cheap popular form.”— A. F. Graphic, May 29. 

“Denman Thompson’s play, ‘The Old Homestead,’ is familiar, at least by rep- 
utation, to every piay-goer in the country. Its truth to nature and its simple 
pathos have been admirably preserved in this story, which is founded upon It 
and follows Its Incidents closely. The requirements of the stag- make the action 
a little hurried at times, but the scenes described are brought before the mind’s 
eye with remarkable vividness, and the portrayal of life In the little New Eng- 
land town Is almost perfect. Those who have never seen the play can get an 
excellent Idea of what it Is like from the book. Both are free from sentimentality 
and sensation, and are remarkably healthy in XjoneJ— Albany Express. 


“Denman Thompson’s ‘Old Homestead' has been put into story-form and Is is- 
sued by Street & Smith. The story will somewhat explain to those who have not 
seen It the great popularity of the plsty.”— Brooklyn Times, June 8th. 


“The fame of Denman Thompson’s play, ‘Old Homestead,’ Is world-wide. 
Tens of thousands have' enjoyed it, and frequently recall the pure, lively pleasure 
they took In Its representation. This Is the story told in narrative form as well 
as It was told on the stage, and will be a treat to all, whether they have seen the 
play or noV’— National Ti'ibune, Washington, D. C. 


“Hero we have the shaded lanes, the dusty roads, the hilly pastures, the 
peaked roofs, the school-house, and the familiar faces of dear old Swanzey, and 
the story which, dramatized, has packed the largest theater In New York, and 
has been a success everywhere because of its true and sympathetic touches of 
nature. All the Incidents which have held audiences spell- bound are here re- 
corded— the accusation of robbery directed against the Innocent boy, his shame, 
and leaving home ; the dear old Aunt Tilda, who has been courted lor thirty 
years by the mendacious Cy Prime, who has never had the courage to propose : 
the fall of the country boy Into the temptations of city life, and his recoveW bv 
the good old man who braves the metropolis to find lilm. The story embodies aU 

tliat it suggests qjs well .” — Kafiscts City Jo'uvfi€U$ 









THE SELECT SERIES. 

A WEEKLY PUBLICATION. 

Devoted to <3rood IrJ-eading in .American JETiction. 

Subscription Price, $13.oo Per Year. No. 40.— MAY 7, 1890 

Copyrighted, 1890, by Street <& Smith. 

Entered at the Post-Offiee, New York, as Seeond-Class Matter. 


AT A GIRL’S MERCY ; 

OR. 

TPlxo IFor turLOJS of "W” 



JEAN KATE LUDLUM, 


AUTHOR OF 

“WAS HE WISE?” “THE MINISTER’S WIFE,” etc. 


NEW YORK: 

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 

31 Rose Street, 


PREFACE. 


Let no one say that this story of the war and its 
changes and chances is not to the life. There is, 
through the entire book, the touch of truth more 
strange often than fiction, and even the entrance of 
the daring burglars is taken from life. Those who 
read may learn, if already they do not know, that 
real life is more startling many times than the high- 
est lights set in a novel ; and most novels are taken 
from life to a greater or less degree. Even the his- 
tory of the fugitive slaves was taken from the lips 
of ‘"Lola” herself, and there are other parts as true. 

Jean Kate Ludlum. 


Brooklyn, N. Y. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER. PAGE. 

I — A Chance Acquaintance 7 

II— Nan 18 

III — A Development... 33 

IV — Two Daughters of the Union 42 

V — A Glimmer of Hope 52 

VI — Waiting for Death 62 

VII — Fugitives 72 

VIII — Waiting With Folded Hands, 83 

IX — How He Worked His Plans 93 

X — A Few Changes loi 

XI — A Day and a Night no 

XII— The Cords of the Net 117 

XIII— That Wound a Heart 128 

XIV— And Then Cut Deeper 135 

XV— Not Reckoning the End 145 

XVI— A Tender Nurse 157 

XVII— A Grateful Patient 163 

XVIII— A Startling Development 168 

XIX— The Coils of the Serpent I 75 

XX — The Strangeness of Fate 185 

XXI — The Fortunes of War 194 

XXII— A Daughter of the Union 205 

XXIII— The End and the Beginning 215 




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AT A GIRL’S MERCY 


CHAPTER I. 

A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE. 

The moon had long dipped below the horizon, and 
the world was hushed in the silence that, comes only 
with the dawn, or with death. When the east should 
glimmer with the new-born morning, the birds 
would awake, and all nature would arouse ; but at 
present not a thing was stirring, not an insect nor a 
bird. Under the elms that surrounded the hall 
where Squire Courtland lived the darkness was 
more dense and deep, if that were possible, and 
only a faint trace of paler shadow marked the edge 
of the lawn where the thick hedge shut off the 
street. 

A deadly stillness, not a glimmer of light in the 
house, not a glimmer of light in the east, where the 
dawn was being born ; not even a dog in the kennels 
lifted his voice to warn the inmates of the house of 
the danger that lurked unseen, unknown in the still- 
ness and deep shadow of the elms. 

Silence — and was the silence of death to follow? 

A whisper, scarcely audible in the silence, a light, 
firm step, making no sound on the close-cropped 


8 


AT A GIBL'S MERCY, 


grass of the lawn, then a faint, quickly extinguished 
gleam of light from a bull’s-eye lantern, and the 
peace of the night was broken, and the touch of evil 
had marred the breathless waiting of nature for the 
dawn. 

“Is it all right, pard?” whispered a voice that, in 
the stillness, sounded almost startling. 

“Right,” was the concise reply, as another form 
and another step blended with the elm shadows. 
“Everything’s quiet as the grave, but you may as 
well keep a still tongue in your head. Where are 
the others?” 

Instantly a half dozen voices replied in a whisper 
that was. like the stirring of leaves in a low wind ; a 
half dozen other forms arose from the roots of the 
hedge, it might be, like spirits of the night ; but 
again silence fell upon them. They were in the 
presence of their chief ; their safety lay in obeying 
unquestionably. 

“All’s ready,” was the command, in a voice that 
sounded distinctly to each and all, yet which would 
not have been heard at the distance of two yards. 
“Everything in readiness; all of them asleep as 
sound as the dead; we have only to enter, and, 
mind you, a man goes back on his courage under 
pain of death ! Follow me, and follow my example.” 

They moved under the trees as though they were 
part of the trees themselves ; not a sound was heard 
save now and then a faint fall of footsteps as they 
trod the walks of the lawn ; every hand was on the 
butt of a revolver, and every man was ready to sell 
his life dearly, if need be. They filed, one by one, up 
to the house, up the steps, and on to the piazza lead- 
ing to the two long windows of the library. 

Not a word was spoken; all knew what was ex- 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


9 


pected; all went to work as one man, silently, 
swiftly, surely; and ere the first streak of new- 
coming day had touched the east they were inside 
the house, the fastenings of the windows falling off 
like so much straw under their experienced hands 
and tools. 

Outside, the darkness had been dense enough, but 
in there, it was like the void before the world was 
made— no form, no shadow; nothing but a solid 
body of blackness that might hold danger or death 
for the men ; but not one of them flinched, not one 
of them failed in the work laid out for him. Like 
so many shadows of a formless shadow, they moved 
across the room, feeling their way as though on 
familiar ground, yet to guard against any possible 
obstruction that might lay in the way. 

Half way across the room the leader stopped, and 
every man of them stopped also. But there was no 
danger ; all was silent as the grave, silent as death, 
betraying nothing that lay beyond. 

A scratch of a match, like the report of a pistol in 
the silence, as the chief applied the match to the gas 
above his head, making the men visible to each 
other, a motley group, with masked faces, and ugly- 
looking weapons in their hands — hands that were 
quick to revenge an injury or a fancied slight. 

‘‘This is your field,” the chief said, with a low 
laugh of utter nonchalance, as he pointed to a heavy 
safe at the far end of the room. ‘The squire put his 
boodle there when he came from town yesterday. 
Afraid that the government would seize it for use 
in the war, but never expecting that another gov- 
ernment would make good his hold upon it. Well, 
you know the lay of the land as well as I. Make no 


10 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


blunders. Your field is here. I shall take the rest 
of the house with the aid of Dan. Come on, Dan.’’ 

A slim young fellow stepped out from among the 
others, obedient as a dog, and the two passed out of 
the library into the hall. As they started up the 
stairs the chief paused long enough to light the gas 
there, saying, with a laugh, noiseless as his step : 

“Plenty of light, Dan, always plenty of light. 
There’s more to be seen in the light.” 

It was marvelous how silent the house was, save 
for the stealthy footsteps on the stairs as the two 
men passed up into the house. How could they 
sleep so soundly when their lives and their home 
were in danger? Without interruption the men 
passed from one room to another, doing their work 
quickly and well. Without a word the squire was 
overpowered almost before he was awake, and his 
arms tied down, while a gag was placed in his 
mouth ; and the same treatment was given his wife. 
Neither dared make resistance for fear of endanger- 
ing the life of the other, for the revolvers were in 
close proximity, and the eyes of the men, under their 
masks, showed that they would not hesitate to use 
them if necessary. 

Then through the rooms they went, one room 
after the other, lighting the gas in each, until the 
house was ablaze with light, yet hidden from out- 
side view by the heavy, closed shutters. One room 
after the other, making sure of no interference from 
unknown sources, securely fastening the door lead- 
ing into the servants’ hall, for no blood was to be 
unnecessarily shed, and there were many servants 
who would willingly sacrifice their lives for the sake 
of the master and his house, and discovery by them 
would mean an infuriated defense against these 


AT A QIRVS MERCY. 


11 


midnight visitors, uninvited, unexpected and unwel- 
come. 

At last, pausing at the end of the hall near a door 
leading into the tower room, the leader turned to 
his companion with a gesture of dismissal. 

“Take what you find,” was his low command; 
“carry it below, and wait till I come.” His hand 
was on the butt of his revolver, and the gleaming 
eyes under the mask rested for a moment on the 
other’s with a meaning not to be misunderstood ; 
then the other went his way, well Knowing that 
treachery meant death, and the leader, turning the 
knob of the door, entered the room. 

Striking a match as noiselessly as possible, he lit 
the gas, and turning it on in a brilliant glow that 
fiooded the pretty, airy room — evidently a woman’s 
room — he turned toward the bed, standing for a mo- 
ment so that the light would not touch the face of 
the sleeper and arouse her too suddenly. 

Up to this everything had passed off smoothly, 
better even than he had dared hope, and he did not 
propose spoiling the game just here. A strange 
smile stirred the drooping mustache just visible 
under the mask as he wondered — watching the quiet 
face among the pillows, one jeweled hand thrown in 
a childish fashion above the bonnie head of curls— 
what the girl would say when he chose to awaken her 
and make known his errand, an errand he rather 
dreaded making known with this pure face before 
him. And then, even as one will at the moment of 
great events, he began to picture what the lips would 
say— warm, red lips they were, just parted over the 
small white teeth— and whether or not the eyes 
would flash or shrink, and of what color they should 
be to match the softly colored face and warm yellow 


12 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


hair; and then— the white lids lifted of themselves, 
and the eyes opened large and deeply blue — the blue 
that turns to purple with excitement, the blue that 
is true and sweet with life. 

The man who had unconsciously drawn nearer 
the bed, attracted by the purity of the girTs face, 
now drew himself to his full height, and touched the 
revolver he held in his hand with a sharp metallic 
click that drove the color from the sweet face 
among the pillows, but did not daunt the brave eyes 
lifted quietly and rather defiantly to his. The bril- 
liant eyes behind the mask glowed with an intenser 
light as the man’s voice broke the silence. 

‘ ‘Pardon this intrusion, friend. You doubtless de- 
sire an explanation, and shall have it at once. 
Everyone in this house, excepting yourself and my 
comrades, is in my power at this moment. We came 
here on a little matter of business, and decided not 
to call in the aid of the officers of the law in captur- 
ing the house. Our business is almost finished, and 
my friends are waiting below. I intend to use no 
violence with you unless you make it necessary for 
me to do so. My private secretary here,” with a 
slight movement of his hand that brought the revol- 
ver hashing under the gaslight, “wishes — nay, de- 
mands, if need be,” as an ominous flash in the blue 
eyes opposite showed an undaunted spirit. “That, 
however, I trust will not be necessary,” and again 
there was a twitching of the partly hidden mustache 
and a gleam in the dark eyes between the slits of the 
mask. “You will oblige me, madam, by arising and 
showing me where your money is, and such jewelry 
as I may desire.” 

The girl’s spirit arose to the occasion. 

“Is it not rather ungallant,” she asked, her low 


AT A GIRVS MERCY, 


13 


voice stirred by a clear note of indignation, while her 
eyes met unflinchingly the eyes behind the mask, 
searching for any clew that might possibly Icjad to 
the identiflcation of the audacious thief— “is it not 
rather ungallant, sir, to ask a lady to arise? May I 
not remain where I am, and so direct you to my safe 
and my jewels? It is to be regretted that my broth- 
ers are not here to perform this little courtesy in my 
stead, but my brothers are away to the war, and my 
father, I understand, is in your power. 

She laughed as she spoke— a disdainful laugh that 
set the man’s eyes afire— and ran her fingers care- 
lessly through the short curls of her head. She 
would meet this man on his own ground of mock- 
ing courtesy, and if a chance should offer 

“I would I could oblige you, sir, but it is not a 
pleasant dut}.” 

“I would it were in my power to grant your re- 
quest, sweet friend,” he said, bending before her in 
low courtesy, “but it is impossible. Your eyes pro- 
claim your forced friendship for me, and I prefer 
having you before my eyes— a pretty vision, in 
sooth!” he added, smiling. “May I trouble you to 
arise at once, as time passes, and I cannot linger, 
however much I may desire to do so.” 

Again she laughed her sweet, disdainful laugh, 
that made the man’s ears tingle, as she slipped 
slowly from the bed, and arose, confronting him, 
drawing herself to her full height with pretty dig- 
nity, that even then left her a head and shoulders 
below his stature— for he had a magnificent figure, 
be he what he might— her white gown falling around 
her, hiding even the dainty white feet beneath. 

“Sir,” she said, with a deprecating gesture, not a 
trace of fear in her manner, not a quiver in the 


14 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


brave face and frank eyes lifted to his, though she 
knew full well she was at his mercy. ‘‘Sir, it is but 
a poor offering I can make you. Some paltry dollars, 
perhaps, and a few jewels that are worth more to 
me as gifts than they could be to you, because the 
most and best of my jewels, thank Heaven, I sent to 
the city yesterday to the safety vaults. But such as 
I have here I give to you. Take them, take them 
freely. I would not have you stain your manhood 
with the guilt of robbing a defenseless girl.’’ 

It was a daring speech, and she knew it, but she 
must find some vent for her bitter scorn of the man. 
He felt the hot blood rush to his cheeks, and his 
eyes were blazing with wrath and unconquerable 
admiration for the girl, who, at his mercy, dared 
show her spirit in such words as these, words that 
he wondered afterward he did not strike her down 
for uttering. He touched the revolver impressively, 
and his lips grew white as the blood surged from his 
face around his heart. 

“My fair maiden is bold,” he said, “and gra- 
cious,” a metallic ring in his voice. “But I must 
hasten her movements, or dawn will find me still 
here.” 

She shrugged her round shoulders contemptuously 
as she crossed the room to her dressing-case. 

“Evil lurks in darkness; the wicked fear the 
light,” she said, lightly. “Only the wicked, sir.” 

He made a swift movement, as though he would 
grasp her arm — the round white arm, from which 
the loose lace sleeve fell back as she reached for the 
key of her jewel-case that hung on a bracket near — 
his teeth ground together in sudden fury. But he 
did not touch her. He stood for a moment as though 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


15 


turned to stone, then he uttered a careless laugh, 
with an answering shrug of his shoulders. 

“By the Lord Harry, but you are daring,’’ he said. 
“Let me advise you, sweet maid, from the height of 
my superior knowledge, to keep a tighter rein on 
your speech. The lips are too pretty to utter such 
words as these.” 

She flashed her great eyes upon him, afire with 
indignation and scorn, in spite of the ripple of laugh- 
ter on her lips. 

“The height of your knowledge, sir? You should 
have said the depth ; there is only purer knowledge 
on the heights, and my lips are my own, to speak 
or be silent,” she said, as the key clicked in the 
lock and she opened her jewel-case. “These are 
poor gifts, my lord, to one who takes what he will. 
It is too bad for your purpose that I have not my 
best ones here, but I think I sent them away be- 
cause I knew or felt there was villainy on foot.” 

He uttered a smothered curse as he closed the lid 
over the jewels. 

“I will take it as it is,” he said, resuming the 
novel fire of raillery ; “a gift freely given is higher 
than all. Is there anything else of value of which 
you would dispose? Your watch, for instance, or 
that locket on your neck that shows through the 
lace of your robe?” 

A flush crept to the soft cheeks, but she lifted the 
dainty watch from its case, that she had hoped was 
hidden from him by the huge toilet bottle in front 
of it, but when he held out his hand for the locket 
her eyes blazed as darkly as his. 

“IsTo,” she cried, sharply, for the first and only 
time losing command of the half scornful, half 
laughing tone she had held toward him. “No, you 


16 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


cannot have this. It is a gift that even you must 
respect. It is mine, and shall still be mine. Have 
you not all else?’’ 

For a moment he was tempted to take it from her 
whether she would or no, just to prove to her that 
after all she was a frail girl in his power, but he let 
it pass, and merely laughed lightly as he said : 

“Keep the pretty bauble, if you will, my maid. 
Your anger becomes you. But I will humor you in 
this. Is there aught else you have I may desire?” 

“I wish,” she said, and half laughed as she said 
it, for she knew how conscienceless such men as this 
one were — “I wish I had something worth hasten- 
ing your departure, sir. I would gladly give it to 
you if only I possessed it.” 

“By Heaven!” he burst out then. “If you were a 
man ” 

“Which I’m not, you see,” she broke in, her voice 
steady and sweet. “Come, come, sir. This, to a 
woman? You should have entered the army, and 
fought with men who would soon teach you man- 
ners. Ah, sir, I fear your courage is lacking, that 
you stay at home and fight with women.” 

“The better half of the world, and therefore the 
better fight,” he said, r^^covering his coolness, and 
falling back into the groove of their conversation. 
“But I must hasten. Your purse, madam. Thanks. 
And I will take that ring you have on your finger. 
Judging at random, I should say it is worth more 
than all these jewels. It is quite too heavy for such 
slender fingers as yours.” 

“I give it with pleasure, my lord. Would that it 
were a bullet,” and she laid the ring in his hand 
with a mocking grace. 

“Doubtless its aim would be sure,” he said, ^^and 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


17 


sharp as your words are, sweet friend. And now, 
perforce, I must leave you, as the hours are lengthen- 
ing. This one request I make”— she was uncon- 
sciously stroking the delicate sprays of Canterbury 
bells in a gray pitcher near her hand— ‘‘and see you 
obey to the letter, else,” and he tapped lightly but 
significantly the gleaming revolver. “You are to 
give me your word that you will not attempt to leave 
this room to release your parents, or give the alarm 
in any way, until the sun has risen clear of the hills 
yonder. I warn you for your own good. You are 
brave, but we would know of it should you break 
your promise, and it will be at peril of your life to 
do so. Pardon my stringent measures, and grant 
me a simple request that does not at all affect your 
safety.” 

Ho laughed and bent before her in deep courtesy, 
saying, with great humility : 

“May I take with me a spray of these flowers, 
madam — these blue bells that are the hue of your 
eyes and the color to be worn for success? I would 
take with me some souvenir of this meeting!” 

He disengaged the most perfect of the sprays, and 
a strange smile stirred his drooping mustache as he 
turned to leave her presence. 

She bent in mocking courtesy in reply to his, a 
brilliant smile on her face. 

“Sir, I bid thee farewell. Every request of thine 
shall be complied with, not because it is a wish of 
mine, but because it is thy will. Indeed,” she ad- 
ded, and the smile deepened until for the moment 
the man was dazzled, “I would grant you much 
more than that, sir, to be rid of you.” 

But when the door closed behind him the sweet 
<;olor died from her face, and the light from her eyes, 


18 


AT A GIRVS MERCY. 


as, reeling for a moment where she stood, she sud- 
denly fell insensible to the floor. 


CHAPTER II. 

NAN. 

How long she was unconscious she never knew, 
but presently she opened her eyes and sat up, run- 
ning her Angers through her hair in bewilderment. 
IN’othing was clear to her at first, but by and by, 
though her head was throbbing furiously, and the 
room reeling and swimming before her eyes, all that 
had passed came back with renewed vividness, and 
then the horror of the thought seemed to turn her 
brain, and she began to sink with the lights reeling 
around her — down and down into a horrible gulf'of 
blackness. All power of thought or action seemed to 
have left her ; she was reeling and swaying with 
terrible velocity through a darkness that had no 
light, a darkness so dense and terrible she wondered 
if it were to last forever, yet wondered in such a 
vague, apathetic fashion that she smiled dully, 
thinking she was dead. 

Then the darkness parted, the formless mass of 
shadows surrounding her began to flash and vibrate 
with lightning gleams, and a dead sort of thunder, 
a deadly sickness, possessed her, a desire to go back 
to the utter blackness, with its dulled sense, rather 
than fight with the new agonizing struggle for life. 
Then the reeling lights and flashes resolved them- 
selves into the brilliant glare of the gas jet over her 
dressing-case, and with a deep sigh of utter weari- 
ness she again sat up, brushing the curls from her 
death- white face. 


AT A G.mrs MmcY. 


19 


She remembered all now — the fear and excite- 
ment, with the stern determination over all in her 
mind to be brave, as her brothers were brave, fight- 
ing on the battle-field at that moment, it might be — 
fighting or — dead. She, the sister of soldiers, must 
be brave as a soldier in her little way. To submit 
with such apparent carelessness to the outrage on 
her parents and her home, had been very bitter to 
her, yet even at the time she remembered — and it 
came to her keenly in the midst of the danger — that 
in battle much more may be accomplished at times 
by strategy than by open action. 

“And I shall capture him,’’ she thought, with a 
trembling smile, as she arose wearily to her feet, 
steadying herself by a chair. “I shall capture him 
yet. At least I have his voice and figure, and that 
quick motion of his hands that somehow impresses 
itself upon one, and I will know him by them if ever 
I meet him. And at this minute there are papa and 
mamma bound, he said, and helpless, and I helpless 
to help them because of my word passed that I will 
not leave my room until the sun is rising.” 

She crossed the room slowly, as though she had 
suddenly grown old, and turned down the gas to a 
faint glimmer ; then she went to the eastern win- 
dow, and, drawing aside the curtains, turned the 
slats of the blinds so that she could look out. 

Between the leaves of the rose vine climbing her 
window, on the hill beyond, the east was faintly 
fiushing with the touch of dawn. A gleam as of sil- 
ver stretched along the horizon, as though the edge 
of a sword rested on the curve of the hill ; above this 
wavered a line of pink, deepening to crimson, and 
fading off to streaks of pale gold and steely blue. 

The girl watched it with breathless interest, hold- 


20 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


ing fast by the window-ledge to steady herself, her 
soul fairly quivering into a prayer that the day 
would come quickly. 

There was evidently no one stirring but herself; 
the house was still as death, ay, worse than death, 
for how could she wait till the sun should mount the 
hill yonder before she could help her parents — before 
she could know the worst? The house was so still. 
Could the man have lied to her — lied to her, that no 
one had been harmed, when her father and mother 
at that moment might be 

She dared think no more ; thought without action 
was unbearable. With a swift movement she swept 
the curtains aside, and leaning out, noiselessly 
opened wide the shutters, then turning, she set the 
gas at full blaze, sending a weird gleam of light out 
to meet the warm, sweet light of morning. 

‘T cannot bear it!’^ she whispered, excitedly, to 
herself, pacing the floor with clenched hands and 
quivering face, her step grown strong with excite- 
ment. ‘T cannot bear it any longer. I promised 
not to leave my room till the sun is risen, but some 
one may see this light and come to learn the cause. 
I pray God they may. It is unbearable — unbearable. 

They may be What may not have happened in 

the time I have spent here waiting.’’ 

She stamped her bare foot noiselessly, but in a 
tempest of anger and fear ; she threw out her hands 
with a gesture of despair, the blue eyes purple with 
excitement as she turned toward the window, her 
face drawn with waiting. 

‘‘Will the dawn never come — will no one ever 
come? How can everyone sleep so sound with this at 
their doors? How can they fail to see my light? Oh, if 
I only might have shot him down like a dog ! If I 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


21 


might have treated him as he deserved ! If only 
Charlie and Frank were here to help me in this ! 
And I shut in here as though I were a coward!’’ 

Hastily dressing herself she again turned to the 
window, waiting for the dawn and the rising of the 
sun. 

By and by a streak of light shot up the east — 
another and another ; an arch of g^littering rays, 
a solid rim of blinding gold, growing larger and 
larger, into the half — the whole of a golden globe — 
and the sun was risen. 

The girl stood like a statue, and watched it rise up 
and up, her breath quick and labored, as though she 
were suffocating ; she put her two hands up to her 
head to still its beating; her eyes were strained to 
meet the rising sun. 

“I shall know, I shall know!” she cried, softly, 
the return of all her strength bringing a flush to her 
cheeks and a new light to her eyes. 

She was ready for what should come, and under a 
wonderful self-control, as she stood, her hand on the 
handle of the door, watching the sun mount the oppo- 
site hill. When it was clear of the slope, sailing like 
a golden ball over the trees and the gardens on the 
hill-top, she flung the door wide open and ran along 
the hall, holding her breath with the thought of 
what might be waiting her, a sob in her throat, a 
cry in her heart for help to bear what was to come. 

The door was ajar, and with blanching face she 
pushed on into the room beyond. For a moment her 
heart stood still as she saw only two silent figures 
on the bed, but she regained her courage when a 
movement proved that her fears were groundless. 
Both were gagged, as the thief had said, and it was 
with trembling hands that the girl untied the knots 


22 


AT A GIBL'S MERCY. 


in the cords that bound them so securely and held 
the gag so firmly in place that not a sound could 
pass their lips. 

Excepting rather severe stiffness from the uncom- 
fortable position and strain, the squire was all right 
after a few minutes, though almost speechless with 
indignation and apprehension as to the extent of 
their loss; but Mrs. Courtland did not recover so 
easily. The shock, together with the anxiety as to 
their daughter’s fate, threw her into a fever, and 
she lay tossing in delirium among the pillows, 
knowing no one, babbling incoherently, her thin 
face sunken more than even the worry about her 
boys had been able to do, her eyes bloodshot and 
partly open, giving a ghastly look to the sweet old 
face. 

“Oh, this is worse than all the rest,” the girl said, 
her own face pallid from watching the fiush and 
flickering of the faint life before her. “Oh, this is 
the worst, papa — so much the worst. Oh, mamma, 
oh, mamma, why is it you who must bear the worst 
of everything?” 

“You must come away, dear,” her father said, 
quietly placing his arm around her, and gently lead- 
ing her away from the bedside. “The physician will 
be here presently, and if Sarah should awaken your 
face would but startle her. You have been through 
a trying ordeal, Nan, but you must not lose your self 
control now.” 

When the most of the excitement was over, the 
girl and her father sat alone in the library, the girl 
softly smoothing the gray hair from the squire’s 
temple — grown, oh, so much whiter, it seemed to 
her, in that terrible night. 

“If they had only spared his,” he said, despair- 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


23 


in2:ly. ‘‘If they had only spared his, Nan. It is bad 
enough, as it would be if they had taken only that 
which I had up to send on to help the army, but 
that they took his, too ” 

‘‘Whose, papa?’^ her hand very tender and sooth- 
ing on his head. 

“Howard Blake’s, child. I drew it from the Na- 
tional last night for him, and should have taken it 
to him at once had he been home ; but he was not, 
and now those rascals have it. It is terrible to think 
how helpless I was. Nan.” 

“Yes, papa dear; but it wasn’t your fault. You 
drew it according to Mr. Blake’s order; he took the 
risk when he asked you to draw it. He knew he 
would be absent from home, and you must keep it 
over night. Why should you feel it so dreadfully, 
papa? You can pay it back, you Jcnow, if he desires 
it,” the girl said, it seeming very simple to her, 
knowing so little as she did about money, save to 
spend it. “You can make it good, napa, and it 
isn’t half so bad as though you had stolen it.” 

She laughed to make him laugh, for he seemed so 
deeply buried in despair that her heart ached for him, 
seeing him as she had hitherto seen him, grave al- 
most to a fault, showing no emotion even when his 
sons, the pride of his heart, had donned the blue and 
marched away it might be never to return. And to 
see him so crushed by the loss that, to the girl, was 
only cause for indignation and recovery of the 
stolen articles if possible, together with a severe 
punishment for the thieves who were so audacious, 
was terrible to her. She knew so little about her 
father’s affairs, or the state of the government treas- 
ury, and the need there was for all the money it was 
possible to secure, and the generosity of so many 


24 


AT A GIBVS MERCY, 


men to give almost their all to aid on the cause of 
freedom and victory. 

‘'Don’t you worry, you dear papa. You can easily 
pay it back, you know, if that is necessary, though 
I can’t for the life of me see how he could ask it. 
And as to that, if you need the money yourself, now 
there are my jewels — more, really, than I know 
what to do with— and I will gladly ” 

His stern face, broken into quivering that was in- 
stantly stilled, stopped further words, and she only 
stood smoothing his hair with her tender fingers, 
wishing from the bottom of her heart that she were 
a man to take this burden from her father’s shoul- 
ders. 

“Nan,” he said, lifting a trembling hand, and 
taking one of hers within it, patting it as he had 
done when she was a child, and came to him for 
comfort — it had been her habit to go to her father 
for comfort. “My brave little Nan ! I haven’t come 
to that yet, please God, but it is like your thought- 
fulness to wish to help where help might be needed. 
It is only the awkwardness of its coming just now, 
when our army needs all the help we can give. That 
of Mr. Blake, with what I have lost of my own, will 
cripple my business considerably. The total loss is 
somewhere in the neighborhood of seventy-five thou- 
sand dollars, and that isn’t a light loss at this time. 
It is the cramping of help where I wish to help that 
worries me. Our soldiers are suffering now for nec- 
essaries that this money — ay, half of this money — 
would give if only for a day, and at this crisis a day 
may mean victory. To take the food from the 
mouths of our soldiers — cowardly thieves as they are. 
If I had them here I would shoot them down as I 
would so many rabid curs. The city is swarming 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


25 


with such, who will have to learn their places and 
their rights at the point of the bayonet or from the 
leaden bullet of our arms.’’ 

^‘Is it so bad as that, papa?” 

“So bad, and even worse,” replied the squire, with 
deepening lines on his face. “So bad, little girl, 
that one’s life isn’t safe in the city for a day.” 

“Oh,” the girl said, “papa, if I were a man to 
enter the army and help toward bringing the peace ! 
They told us we should have peace at the end of a 
few months at the most, and here the war has been 
going on for months already, and we seem no 
nearer the end than at the beginning.” 

“We must fight it out, little girl,” the squire said, 
with a sad smile, the first on his face that day. 
“And if I were not crippled with this rheumatic leg 
of mine, it wouldn’t take me long to enter the lists 
with the youngest of them. And not only that, but 
here I am crippled to a certain extent by this rob- 
bery, that not only deprives me of the amount I in- 
tended forwarding to the government, but also takes 
fifty-thousand dollars of what does not belong to me, 
but which I shall have to make good.” 

“But don’t you think, papa,” Nan said, a fiash in 
her eyes, “that Mr. Blake will require no return of 
this money? How could he ask it, when he ran the 
risk on giving you the order to draw for him ? And 
if he has a spark of patriotism— which, I believe, I 
doubt — he must let this go when he knows how it 
will cripple you for aid to the army. Isn’t there 
something I can do — write a note to him and ask 
him to call upon you that you may talk it over with 
him? Are you sure everything is done, papa, that 
can be done? Are those detectives trustworthy? So 
many of them will do nothing but make a pretense 


26 


AT A OIRVS 3IERCr, 


to search for the thieves unless they are paid well 
for their trouble.” 

“Yes, dear, everything is done that can be done. 
The detectives are the best in the city, and they do 
it without hope of reward — don’t think so ill of our 
city officials, Nan — though I shall reward them well 
if they succeed, which I have almost no hope of their 
doing. The men were so audacious — so daring and 
dare-devil. They were pretty sure of not being de- 
tected when they made such a raid on the house. 
Look at the way in which they worked. The house 
a blaze of light. And they worked as only profes- 
sionals would know how to work. Even the chief, 
who came first this morning, said he thinks it will 
be a tough chase, but they will, of course, do what 
they can. I have little hope of success on our side. 
Nan. I have sent for Mr. Blake, and will see what 
he has to say, though it will be btlt right to pay 
what was stolen of his while in my house, if he de- 
sires it. There, little girl, run away. You have had 
enough worry and excitement for one morning to 
make an ordinary young woman ill for a month. 
A breath of this fresh air will do you good, and I 
must go up to your mother. They cannot keep me 
from the room.” 

“Of course not, papa; let us hope that Mr. Blake 
will see this matter as we see it. If he does not, I 
shall despise him more than usual.” And she looked 
capable of it as she turned away, just as Mr. Blake 
himself was announced. 

With a tender pressure of the fingers over hers. 
Nan passed from the room, giving the new-comer a 
cool bow, to which he responded by one as calm, 
though there was a gleam in his eyes that showed a 
stronger sense of what he considered was his right. 


AT A mRL'S MERCY. 


27 


‘^If he isn’t ^ood to papa he can really have no 
heart,” Miss Nan said to herself as she went out into 
the cool, old-fashioned garden in which she took so 
much pride. “I don’t believe he does possess much 
of that commodity, anyway,” she added. ‘‘He would 
consider it altogether too unprofitable, for his coin 
is dollars and cents with a better sense left out.” 
And she shrugged her shoulders daintily as she 
stooped over the huge bed of white carnations. 
Carnations were Charlie’s favorites. “If only the 
boys were here,” a smile chasing the sigh from her 
lips almost before it was born, “and yet I would not 
have them other than where they are when all of 
our boys are needed. How a man like Howard 
Blake, with his strength and health, can willingly 
remain at home when even father, old as he is and 
lame, would go in a moment if they would take 
him. Well, I won’t bother about you, Howard 
Blake, for you aren’t worthy when there is so much 
else to think of, with mamma sick and papa so 
down-hearted with this loss, and the boys — who 
knows where the boys are at this moment ! Mamma 
shall have her flowers when she awakes, anyway, 
and I will do what I can to help papa in this trouble. 
It isn’t much, of course, that I can do, knowing so 
little about his affairs, but I can learn If I will, and 
it will help him just to talk of it to some one.” 

And then, clipping the sweet carnations with her 
tender Angers, every blossom bringing thoughts of 
the boys and wonder as to what they were doing and 
where they might be while she, their sister, was 
gathering flowers safe at home, her heart with 
them, though her eyes could see them not. And the 
flowers never told of the tears that fell among them 
as she buried her face in them for a moment. 


28 


AT A GIRVS MERCY. 


her ears ringing with the laughter and noise of her 
brothers through the house — the dear laughter and 
noise that might never again awaken the old hall so 
empty and lonely now. And she shyly pressed her 
lips to one of the blossoms that swung against her 
face as though in caress, as she passed slowly down 
the walk to the summer-house at the lower end of 
the garden, half buried among ivy and trumpet 
vines, with a wide border of tall swaying Canter- 
bury bells around it, their blue blossoms lifted in 
the sweet wind stealing down the garden, fragrant 
with its scents, swaying and swinging as though 
tolling a noiseless requiem for the boys wearing 
their colors on the battle-field, who might never 
come back to those waiting with nothing to do but 
pray and hope that the war would bring them less 
of loss than their hearts feared. 

These blue bells swaying on their slender stalks 
had been the girl’s favorites. As a child she had 
never tired of hearing stories of the wonderful 
chimes they rang for the fairies of the garden, or 
how a bit of the sky had slipped down one night 
and changed to the delicate blossoms at the desire 
of a princess of fairyland. And they had grown 
with her ; the garden in summer had never been 
without the sprays with their dots of blue. But now, 
as she bent above them, a thought that hurt her 
came in her mind, and she must not care for them. 
Had not the man who robbed them of not only their 
possessions but their peace of mind, and whose vil- 
lainy had placed her mother on a bed from which 
she might never again arise— had not this man chosen 
these flowers, and therefore made them hateful to 
her forever? For of course she could care for them 
no more, hating him so, hating so his admiration of 


AT A GllWiS MERCY. 


29 


her flowers. She could never care for them again, 
and yet how could she see them every day, and 
know what they had been to her, without caring? 

But, after all, why should she blame the flowers 
for his crime? Were they not still the blue bells 
swinging in the same old garden? Still sweet, and 
dainty, and fair? She laughed at her own absurdity, 
and stooping tenderly over the flowers, cut the long- 
est sprig, and placed it among the carnations, red 
and white, in her hand. 

“They are Frank’s flowers as well as mine, and 
the color of his eyes, too, and why shouldn’t I love 
them?” 

She was standing in the shadow of the vines, hold- 
ing the flowers at a little distance from her, the bet- 
ter to note the effects of cream white and warm red 
and blue, when a step crunching the gravel of the 
walk beside her startled her from her pretty atti- 
tude. 

“Charming, Miss Nan, very charming, indeed,” 
said Mr. Blake, pausing beside her with an air of 
familiarity that made the girl flush and dart one of 
her level glances up at him, full of a Are, that would 
have warned any other man to keep his distance 
from the sharp tongue that was ready to defend her 
rights. “Very charming and suitable for you. The 
red and the white and blue are your colors with 
your brothers in the war. But what a terrible mis- 
fortune this is that has befallen you.” 

“Not so terrible as it might be,” she said, icily. 
“And, after all, there is more than one sort of mis- 
fortune, Mr. Blake. Do you know, I was almost 
happy a moment ago.” 

“And you are not now,” he said, an unpleasant 
expression on his face, an unpleasant laugh crossing 


30 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


his lips— a laugh that merely drew the thin lips 
across his white teeth in a disagreeable manner. 
“Which, I suppose, I am to understand is because of 
my presence. Miss Nan.’’ 

“Well,” she said, crisply, ‘‘every one has his own 
supposition, but, after all, we can endure almost any- 
thing upon necessity.” 

Then 'a thought of her father, and this man’s hold 
upon him, softened her manner, and she looked up 
with one of her sunniest smiles. For her father’s 
sake she could put personal likes and dislikes aside, 
and be pleasant to this man— she should not let self 
rule her words and manners so much as she had. • 

So she smiled and turned her sunny face toward 
him in the shadow of the vines, and lifted her frank 
eyes to his unclouded by her thoughts. But down in 
his heart that smile registered a vow that she should 
feel his power to the utmost. 

“I must compliment my fair neighbor for her 
pluck,” he said, his thoughts showing no more on 
the surface than did hers. “It was a brave thing. 
Miss Nan. A good many would have lost their heads 
or been cowards enough to plead for themselves — ” 

“Would you?” she interrupted, the old spirit get- 
ting the better of her resolutions. 

Then she bit her lip with vexation, and laughed 
lightly. 

“How ridiculous, Mr. Blake. Of course you 
wouldn’t. Like all men, you would have had an in- 
sane desire to oust him, and been ousted yourself 
for your pains in a way you wouldn’t like. Or you 
would have tried to break his head, and had your 
own broken instead. Oh, I know you men. But, 
you see, I was wiser.” 

“A woman’s tact,” he said, his lips drawn over 


AT A QIRrS MERCY. 


31 


his teeth again. ‘‘The man must indeed be a brute 
who would harm you, Miss Nan.’’ 

“Pshaw!” she said, disrespectfully. “Don’t be 
more ridiculous than you can help — from polite- 
ness,” once more recovering herself just in time to 
save an awkward speech. “He would have shot me 
as coolly as he would have shot you, if I had made 
an attempt to escape or betray him; and what 
would have been the use? It is very hard on my fa- 
ther just now. And mother, too. Mother is very 
sick, Mr. Blake, from the excitement.” 

“Yes,” he said, “I know. Miss Nan. You have my 
sincere sympathy. But in regard to your father, I 
think we can compromise matters in a manner satis- 
factory to all. That would be only neighborly, you 
know.” 

“Of course it’s only neighborly,” she said, with 
quick defending of her father. “And I can’t for the 
life of me see how father is to blame. You took the 
chances, you now, when you wished him to draw 
the money for you, knowing that it would have to 
remain here over night. Every one is liable to rob- 
bery. We couldn’t help that the thieves took yours 
along with ours. How could they know that part 
was yours, and if they had they would have had no 
objection to it.” 

The sinister smile crossed his lips as he replied, 
with apparent regret : 

“What you say is all very well and very appropri- 
ate for his daughter to say. Miss Nan; but you do 
not understand business enough to comprehend the 
matter. Your father and I understand it pretty well.” 

“Oh, doubtless!” she said, bitterly. “But I hope 
you will be just to him, Mr. Blake!” 

Again the consciousness of failure in a politic 


32 


AT A GIRVS MERCY. 


dealing with this man flushed her cheeks, but she 
came to her own colors valiantly. 

'‘You will do the very best you can, Mr. Blake? 
Papa is an old man, and he feels it very much that 
he loses this money, which he intended for the use 
of the army. You know how he feels about it, and 
you will do your best?” 

“Canterbury bells,” he said, lightly, leaning 
toward her to touch the string of bells in her hand, 
“They were my mother’s flowers. Miss Nan. One 
seldom sees them nowadays. Would it be asking 
too much ” 

“Oh, dear, no!” she said, rather ungraciously. 
She gave them to ' the thief with more willingness 
than to this man, who was her equal so far as the 
world went. “Oh, dear, no, Mr. Blake. Take them, 
of course. Here!” she disengaged the spray of 
bells from the bouquet, and handed it to him, say- 
ing, lightly: “They are such old-fashioned flowers 
I wonder at your taste, Mr. Blake. There’s nothing 
particularly striking about them, though they look 
well in a bouquet.” 

“Thank you. Miss Nan,” he said, with calm in- 
difference of her scorn. “For your sake I will do the 
best I can in this matter with your father.” 

“He talks for all the world as though father were 
a criminal!” she cried, indignantly, as she looked 
resentfully after him as he walked down the garden 
with a quiet air of authority that aroused all her an- 
tagonism. “And I have a good mind,” she added, 
savagely, “to dig out these flowers root and branch. 
What a depraved taste I must have when thieves, 
and others as bad, choose them. 

“For my sake, indeed!” she added presently, as 
the memory of his words came back to her. “It’ll 


AT A QIRVS MERCr, 


33 


be for no such cause you are good to father, Mr. 
Blake, if I know it.’’ 

And there were no Canterbury bells in her bou- 
quet as she entered the house a few minutes later. 


CHAPTER III. 

A DEV ELOPMENT. 

As Nan entered the hall with the flowers in a 
bowl ready for her mother’s room, her father called 
to her from the library, and she went to him gladly, 
knowing from his voice that he had good news for 
her. He was pacing the room restlessly, though 
with evident pain from his rheumatic leg, his hands 
clasped behind his back, his face a trifle less care- 
worn than it was an hour before. As she entered, he 
turned toward her with a smile pathetic from its at- 
tempt at cheerfulness. 

“Well, Nan, little girl, I have bearded our lion, 
and he isn’t so bad as we thought.” 

“I am so glad, papa.” 

“So am I, Nan— more glad than you can guess, 
for, not having to make this good at once, I can for- 
ward at least a few thousand^ for the use of the army 
next week instead of next month — or, perhaps it 
could not have been for two or three months other- 
wise. He says he will wait the result of the search 
for the thieves, and if the money is not recovered, 
we can then settle the difficulty in some other man- 
ner. At any rate, it will be of great advantage to 
me, postponing settlement in this way.” 

“I am very glad, papa,” Nan said, adding, 
stoutly, however: “But I can’t conceive how he 
could do otherwise. Any one with an ordinary sense 


34 


AT A GIRLS MERCY. 


of justice would do the same. But, then, papa, per- 
haps we should give him special credit, it is so 
against his nature.’’ 

“Well, well,” the squire said, “Nan, we may be 
hard on Blake after all. We will accept his arrange- 
ments, anyway, and leave him to prove his nature 
for himself. I will go up to your mother now, and 
then I must off to the city. It will be a hard day. 
Nan.” He sighed involuntarily as he turned to 
leave the room. At the doorway he turned to her 
again. “Keep watch over mother. Nan, and don’t 
allow any excitement near her. If neighbors come 
in, as undoubtedly they will, to hear the details, 
keep them quiet as possible. These are the doctor’s 
orders; and if any — change — comes ” 

She looked up hastily, frightened at the change in 
his voice, and crossed quickly to his side ; but the 
stern face was set, and she could make nothing from 
it. 

“What do you mean, papa?” 

“I should not have frightened you, child,” he 
said, gravely, his hand unconsciously touching the 
fair head that just reached to his shoulder; “but 
you are a woman now. Nan, and the only one to be 
depended upon in this time. A change in your 
mother’s condition may come at any moment, for 
the better or the worst. It would be cruel to keep 
you out of the knowledge and have it come like a 
blow, as it will be in any event if it comes, as it may. 
The nurse is capable of attending to her duties, but 
there must be some one to attend to the household, 
dear, and you are the only one to do it. Keep the 
house as quiet as you can, and let me know at once 
if I am needed ” 

He did not finish the sentence, but Nan under- 


AT A OIRrs 3IER0r. 


35 


stood, her heart for a moment stopping its beating 
with dread, but her face catching something of her 
father’s stern self -repression, stifling down the in- 
ward cry against this last terrible trouble that was 
hanging over them. 

“I understand, father,” she said, and though her 
lips were white her voice was steady. It was the 
first time she had called him ‘‘father,” and his heart 
ached for her sudden awakening to womanhood and 
the sadness of life. 

“Good-morning, Nan,” he said. “Keep up a brave 
heart, and things may not be so bad as we fear. I 
will be home early as possible to-night. You will not 
be bothered by any of this business so far as the de- 
tectives are concerned, for they will go to my office 
for whatever they have to say. Tell Captain Trav- 
ers when he calls— for, of course, he will call on 
hearing this— that I am proud of my little girl.” 

He attempted a laugh as he left the room, for he 
feared when he was gone she would give way to 
grief, and he could not bear the thought of it for his 
sunny-hearted daughter. 

What, then, was his surprise when he came down 
from his wife’s room and was passing through the 
hall on his way out. Nan came quietly from the 
library, and, slipping her hand under his arm, 
walked with him to the steps where the carriage 
was waiting to take him to the station, a brave 
smile on her lips, and her voice steady and natural, 
uttering little commonplaces, though her face was 
white and set as death. 

And, her smile still in his thoughts, he drove 
away, marveling greatly at the endurance of women, 
even this frail daughter of his, well worthy, he 
thought, to be a daughter of the Union ; while Nan 


36 


AT A amns mercy. 


re-entered the house, and carried the flowers up to 
her mother’s room, leaving them at the door in the 
hands of the nurse, who told her, speaking low, that 
there was no change, and it was impossible as yet to 
tell how the fever would turn. Then she again went 
down stairs to learn the duties of the house, of 
which she knew very little, therefore committing 
many blunders with the best of grace, though she 
was tempted many times to leave the work in the 
hands of the servants who evidently knew so much 
more than she about the management of the house. 
Had there been no other housekeeper than she, it is 
doubtful what sort of a dinner would have been 
placed on the table that night, but as it was with a 
competent woman in charge, things passed off 
smoothly enough. 

By and by, tired exceedingly, and sadly disap- 
pointed at not being allowed to see her mother, Nan 
went down in the garden to her favorite seat in the 
summer-house, dreading the callers she knew would 
come, now that they had had a chance to recover. 
She had had no time to even glance at the morning 
paper, and watching the paper for every item of 
news of the war was one of the duties she never 
failed in, half sad with their accounts of those dead 
and wounded, glad when she found no entry of her 
brothers’ names among that terrible list, though 
now and then her eyes had been brightened by an 
account, only a few words it might be, but meaning 
so much to her, of the bravery evinced by Private 
Frank Courtland, or the glimpse of a wild bit of 
magnificent fighting done by Captain Charlie Court- 
land at the head of his company. 

How many times she had opened the sheet with 
trembling hands, a chill of fear at her heart that 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


37 


she might see what seemed to her she could not bear 
to see, yet not daring to lay it aside unread, when 
it might hold the secret of how much to her. Day 
after day she went over the same anxious search, 
thankful each day that gave no sadder news than 
the long list— always, it seemed to her, a long list— 
of those who had fallen or were missing. 

Going down the garden walk now, she held the 
paper in her hands, scarcely daring to open it, feel- 
ing that another blow would surely crush her. She 
heard the door-bell ring with its muffled tongue that 
startled her by its strangeness, but she could not go 
in just then, no matter who had called ; she must 
have a few minutes to recover herself; she must 
breathe the air— the air was what she needed— the 
air of the sweet old garden with the flowers around 
her— Frank’s flowers and Charlie’s. They lifted up 
their faces to her like old friends; they soothed 
and rested her with their sweetness and their si- 
lence. 

‘‘Do I intrude, Nan?” asked a familiar voice, and 
she turned with a feeling of restfulness and glad- 
ness to the old friend who would give her cheer and 
courage by his courage. 

‘'Oh, Captain Travers!” she cried, meeting him 
with outstretched hand, her face lighting with 
pleasure. “Indeed, this is good of you, when you 
start to-morrow. I wish I were going with you as 
a brother soldier.” 

“I don’t doubt it,” he said, laughing, and his 
laugh was good to hear. “I don’t doubt it, Nan, but 
that is no reason why you should give me my title 
here. But if you were in battle, it would take a short 
charge to make you General Courtland for bravery 
and tact. Oh, yes, you look innocent enough, but 


38 


AT A amvs MERCY. 


I’m not to be fooled. I’ve heard all about you, Nan, 
and I shall report you at headquarters as deserving 
of promotion.” 

“But isn’t it terrible about mamma, Ned? I 
haven’t seen her since early this morning. The nurse 
won’t allow me in the room, and at the door I can 
hear her talking, talking, about the boys, papa said 
— always about the boys as they were before this 
terrible war. When will it end? Will it ever end, 
Ned?” 

“Oh, yes,” he replied, cheerily, gently pushing 
her down upon the seat within the door of the sum- 
mer-house, and sitting on the step at her feet, for he 
saw she was over-excited and much depressed. “Oh, 
yes, it will end, though it may not in some time, but 
end it must. Nan.” 

“I wish I could help end it,” she said, wistfully. 
“It is so much easier to fight than to stay at home 
and wait, and wait we never know what for, nor 
what we will see when we take up the paper ” 

She broke off here, lifting the paper in her hands 
as she looked down at him almost piteously, a wan 
little smile on her lips. 

“See what a coward I am,” she cried. “I haven’t 
dared look at it this whole day. It seems as though 
if anything else should ” 

“There are accounts of the killed and wounded,” 
he said, with quick kindness, “as usual, and a 
glowing description of General Pope’s struggle 
against Lee to save Washington, but there is noth- 
ing you need fear personally. Nan. You have enough 
to bear just now without that. What is this trouble 
of your father’s? It will be a heavy drain on him, 
will it not, losing so much at once? I hope it is no 
worse than I heard?” 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


39 


“Oh/’ she said, vehemently, “how could it be 
worse, Ned? A clear twenty-five thousand dollars 
out of his own, to say nothing of the fifty thousand 
dollars of Mr. Blake’s. And all our silver, save 
the heaviest pieces, that are in the safety vaults, 
and every bit of jewelry I had here — which wasn’t 
much — excepting the diamond ring^ Aunt Amelia 
left me when she died. Not that I care for the 
jewelry itself, Ned, only all together you can 
judge of the loss, and if the worst came, you know, 
one could easily dispose of jewelry. Father is so 
worried over it, coming as it does with this dreadful 
illness of mamma. You would hardly have known 
him had you seen him this morning, he seemed to 
have grown so old.” 

“But Blake wouldn’t think of demanding his 
money,” the jmung man broke in, indignantly, his 
brown eyes hashing. “He’s mean enough for al- 
most anything, but he could not think of such a 
thing as that. He took the risk. It isn’t your fa- 
ther’s fault.” 

“No,” Nan said, gravely; “it isn’t father’s fault, 
Ned, but you know what Mr. Blake is, and we feared 
he might claim his loss, and father said it would 
cripple him so in business if he had to make that 
good with his own loss that he intended to forward 
for the use of the government in raising forces, for 
we shall need extra forces soon if the war doesn’t 
end. But Mr. Blake came over ” 

“Of course,” interrupted the young captain, with 
an emphatic gesture of the arm that had caused his 
absence from the army for a month. “It’s just like 
the impudent fellow.” 

“He came over,” Nan continued, impressively, 
“and has made arrangements with father to wait 


40 


AT A GIRLS MERCY. 


for a fair chance of the money’s being recovered, 
and if it is not, he will make some other agreement 
that he told me himself he thought would be en- 
tirely satisfactory.” 

‘‘Oh, he did?” and there was more sarcasm than 
surprise in his voice. “Well, look here, Nan, all 
I’ve got to say on the subject is that you had best 
look out for him, and be prepared for almost any- 
thing from him. It isn’t in Blake to loose his hold 
of a cent without good returns. But there, I have 
nothing against him except that he had better be- 
have himself in regard to you,” and he laughed 
easily that the girl should not understand his mean- 
ing, for down in his heart he guessed pretty near 
the truth that the man would hold this power over 
Nan if possible, to win her. 

“I’m not afraid of him,” Nan said, “only he’d 
better not try to get the best of father. Do you 
know, Ned, if father wasn’t so sadly lame that the 
government wouldn’t accept him, I believe he’d 
enter the army to-morrow. Look how he sent the 
boys away— proud that they wished to go.” 

“That is the spirit that wins. Nan,” Captain 
Travers said, gravely. “What do you guess Helen 
intends doing?” 

“I know,” in a low voice, nervously folding and 
unfolding the paper on her knee. “We have talked 
it over a good many times, Ned, and now, I sup- 
pose, since you came home so badly wounded, need- 
ing the care only a woman can give, she will put 
our talks into practice, and go to the hospitals, where 
every nurse is needed and will constantly be needed 
more and more. Oh,” she stood up before him, 
and stretched out her hands imploringly, “if only I 
could go, Ned— if only I could go, too. Who knows 


AT A GIRL’S MERCY. 


41 


but one of our boys is needing our care this minute 
while I am idle here. Our Frank, or our big, brave 
Charlie.’’ 

She sank back into her seat, the momentary flush 
of excitement leaving her paler than before. 

‘‘I know,” the young man said, and he laid his 
hand firmly over the two little white hands clasped 
in her lap. ‘‘But, after all, Nan, it is braver to stay 
right here, wishing to go as you do, when your 
mother and father need you so much, than to go to 
the war as a brave little soldier. It’s a great deal 
harder for a soldier to stand watching a battle, 
sternly in reserve, than to dash into the very thick- 
est of the fight and have it out in action ; but some 
must stand back to take the places that are left va- 
cant or where would come the victory? We soldiers 
know who are the brave ones. Nan, without any 
telling.” 

She gave him a slow, grateful smile, and there was 
silence between them for a moment ; then she asked, 
trying to keep her voice steady : 

“When will she go, Ned?” 

“She goes on with me to morrow. Nan. She wished 
you to be with her to-night, but now that it is im- 
possible, she will come to you this evening.” 

Then, rising swiftly to his feet, he turned and 
caught her hands vehemently in his, his eyes search- 
ing the frank blue eyes lifted to his. 

“Good-by,” he said, slowly, the effort to keep bis 
voice steady making it almost harsh. “Good-by, 
Nan, dear. God keep you wherever you are.” 

Her eyes, meeting his, grew unconsciously wist- 
ful, and tears stole into them as she said, gently : 

“If you have time, will you let me hear from you, 
Ned, so that I may know how you are getting on? I 


42 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


shall always wish to know, and long to go, too, that 
I might be one more to help end the war.’^ 

They had been good friends all their lives, why 
shouldn’t she ask him this? But a flush arose in his 
face, and she winced from the pain of her hands in 
his stern clasp. 

“You shall hear,” he said, steadily, “if you wish, 
Nan. Again, good-by, and now and always, God 
keep you and yours.” 

She stood looking after him with her wide, wet 
eyes as he strode out through the garden, tall, 
broad-shouldered, fit, indeed, to be a soldier, she 
thought ; and with an army like him, how could the 
war last much longer? But there was an ache at her 
heart as she walked slowly back to the house, know- 
ing full well that there were others waiting her 
there, and that she must act as though there were 
nothing the matter other than happened every day. 


CHAPTER IV. 

TWO DAUGHTEES OF THE UNION. 

“When Miss Travers calls this evening, show her 
at once to the library, John,” Nan said, to the butler, 
as she passed into the parlor, where several friends 
were waitiug on her return from the garden. And 
when the numerous questions as to the incidents of 
the previous night, exclamations and protestations 
as to the audacity of the thieves, the exceeding 
marvel of her courage under the trying circum- 
stances, sorrow at her mother’s illness, and regrets 
for her father’s loss— when these were over, and her 
guests, one after another through the long summer 
afterenoon, had gone, and the day set in to evening, 


Ale A GIRL'S MERCY. 


43 


Nan and her father were sitting in the library, the 
girl listening with interest to her father’s account 
of the day’s doings in the city, the long account in 
the papers of the daring burglary in the very out- 
skirts of the city — an exciting account even in the 
midst of the war columns— Nan, sitting at the 
squire’s feet, her soft fingers now and then caress- 
ing the other’s wrinkled hand, the hearts of each 
filled with anxiety for the dear mother in the hushed 
room above, from which they were excluded— the 
butler suddenly announced Miss Travers, and Nan 
sprang up with a glad cry, her hands outstretched 
to the tall, slender girl in the door- way. 

“This is so like you, Helen,” she said, lifting her 
red mouth for the caress of her friend. “Your very 
last night at home to give to us. You’re the dearest 
girl. Isn’t she, papa?” 

The new-comer laughed softly, the beautiful hazel 
eyes darkening with pleasure as she stooped, her 
hands on Nan’s shoulders, to kiss the dainty lady 
before her. 

“Don’t help to humiliate me, Mr. Courtland, by 
professed belief in my goodness. It was pure selfish- 
ness on my part. Do you think I could go away 
without a good-by from my girl?” 

“You have come to a sad home, Helen,” the 
squire said, with a warm pressure of her hand, 
though there was no smile on his lips. “But how 
few homes are not sad now.” 

“Yes,” the girl said, and the eyes lifted to his 
grave face were tender with sympathy. “War is a 
terrible thing, Mr. Courtland, and the worst is the 
suspense— the waiting for what we cannot know, 
the inability to end it by just our own efforts. War 
claims the whole country, and the country must do 


AT A GinVS MERCY. 


44 

her work well. Isn't Mrs. Courtland any better? I 
hoped I would find some improvement." 

“She is sleeping now," he responded, as he re- 
turned to his seat under the drop-light, and took up 
the paper; “but it isn’t a natural sleep, Helen. The 
physicians said she must be quieted, and they have 
placed her under the infiuence of opiates. As you 
say, the worst and hardest to bear is the waiting, 
and we wait shut out from her room. But we hope 
for the best, my daughter and I." 

“Poor papa," Nan said, as she and her friend set- 
tled themselves in the window seat at the farthest 
end of the room where the light fell softly upon 
them through the sweeping folds of the lace dra 
pery. “How much he has to bear, Helen. Yet, if 
it were not for him and mamma, and that I am 
needed here, I would go with you to-morrow. What 
a proud girl you must be to go to the war and be of 
use in helping along the Union." 

“It will be sadder than you think. Nan," Helen 
said, smoothing the white, clinging fingers of her 
friend. “Oh, so much sadder than we ever dreamed. 
Ned has told me so much of what I must see and go 
through, and the terrible, terrible suffering I will 
constantly be called upon to witness and assist in 
relieving, and the need of steady nerves and utter 
self-forgetfulness, that I tremble to think how I 
may fail. Oh, Nan, war is so terrible, so terrible! 
How can I ever bear to see them brought in— our 
brave blue laddies !— mutilated, dving, and to see 
them die, unable to help them. Oh, Nan, Nan, I am 
afraid I shall turn coward in the very midst of their 
bravery. Ned told me when he first came home on 
this leave, of one of the young fellows — he couldn’t 
have been more than twenty — who begged so hard 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


45 


for the surgeons and nurses to do something, any- 
thing for him, so long as he could get well— he could 
bear any agony, he said, any operation, no matter 
what it might be, if they would only save him, for 
he must live to care for his mother— he was all she 
had. And, oh, Nan, they could do nothiag but make 
his death as easy as possible. And Ned said there 
were strong men there bearing their own suffering 
without a murmur, who cried like babies when the 
poor boy died. When I think of all these things, 
how can I bear it. Nan? But I must go. I must do 
what I can, if it is only a little. Even if I may but 
give a cup of water to a dying soldier, or lift his 
head, or do some little thing, it will be doing some- 
thing, and I cannot bear inaction when 1 know what 
ought to be done, and I have nothing to hinder me. 
Hilda is home with mother, and as she is quite 
grown now— sixteen, you know— she can easily take 
my place. Of course I couldn’t go but for that.” 

Nan's lips were set, and her eyes purple with the 
intensity of her thought. She scarcely heard Helen’s 
last words. She was with her brothers on the battle- 
field. Suppose at that moment Frank or Charlie were 
dying, or dead, or wounded fearfully, as Helen said. 
Suppose there were no friendly hands near, no 
woman’s tender voice and face to help him bear his 
pain ; no woman’s touch on his hair. Why was it 
that it was always Frank’s fair head and boyish 
face that faced her in the thoughts of the dead and 
wounded in the field— no woman’s hand holding the 
cup of water to his lips, or closing the sightless eyes 
that had always held a smile in them for her? 

Her hand was like ice to the touch of her friend, 
and Helen suddenly leaned forward, lifting her 
white face in her hands. 


46 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


‘^ISTannie, Nannie, it was cruel of me to tell you 
this. I should have known how you would take it. 
Ned said I must tell you none of it”— even in the 
pain of her thoughts it was sweet to think that Ned 
had thought of her— “he wouldn’t tell me, after this 
first story of the poor boy. There are pleasant things 
to think about the war and our boys, and why think 
of this sad story? They are not all dead or wounded. 
Nan. Some of them go through the thickest of the 
fight, and come out unharmed, and our boys say it 
is that some pure woman is thinking of them. If 
we can’t all go, dear, we can stay at home and 
pray, and keep our thoughts of them pure and our 
faith unshaken. We accepted the risks when we 
sent them away, and we would not call them back 
till their duty is done. My brother goes back to- 
morrow, Nan, and yours are there. Come, unless 
you smile I shall go away, knowing that I begin by 
being a coward.” 

Nan shook her head sadly, no stirring of a smile 
on her white lips. 

“I haven’t heard from Frank,” she said, slowly, 
her voice as cold and set as her face. “I haven’t 
heard from Frank in three weeks, Helen, and he 
promised to write regularly when he could.” 

“Of course,” Helen said, with quick cheerfulness 
and a flitting smile that somehow eased her friend’s 
heart. “Of course. Nan, and so he will; but as Ned 
has told me, there are so many things coming up 
now that one doesn’t expect, and had never thought 
of that put all thoughts of letter-writing out of 
one’s head. You know. Nan, I would not say this 
if it were not so.” 

“I know,” Nan answered, gravely, but the trouble 
in her eyes set a shadow in the darker ones oppo- 


AT A OIRUS MERCY, 


47 


site. “But there!’’ she shook her head, sunny with 
its curls, as though to cast off all trouble, and her 
face was again the bright face of Nan Courtland. 
“This is a fine way to send you off to battle, Helen 
Travers. I’ve always protested that I was selfish 
and not at all to be relied upon for courage, and 
this is convincing proof.” 

“Indeed, no!” and Helen laughed, glad that her 
friend could laugh again, though knowing well 
what lay under the bright' surface. “But, let’s talk 
of something else. Have you heard anything, or 
gained any more knowledge of the thieves. Nan? It 
seems to me that the detectives we have nowadays 
ought not to let such daring burglars escape them. 
Wouldn’t you know them if you should see them 
again?” 

“I only saw one,” Nan replied, entering into her 
friend’s kindly spirit, “and I really didn’t see him, 
Nell ; he had a mask on, but I would know his voice 
and figure, I am quite sure. I only wish I could 
have a chance to test my memory.” 

“You ought to have a chance pretty soon,” Helen 
said. “They can’t escape, I’m sure; can they, Mr. 
Courtland?” 

She pushed the curtains aside, and leaned for- 
ward, the gas-light touching her sweet face to added 
beauty as she turned toward the squire, waiting his 
reply, noting, with a sorry pain at her heart, the 
deepened lines of care on the face that had always 
a smile of greeting for her, and that now involun- 
tarily smiled back at her piquant face between the 
falls of lace at the window. 

“Others have escaped,” he said, “and with clever 
detectives on their tracks, too. It’s getting pretty 
hard just now to ferret out such thieves, for with so 


48 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


many of our best men away from home, fighting for 
the Union, these rogues have a greater chance for 
escape than during peaceful times. These are some 
of the fortunes of war. In this instance we have 
lost our money, while many have lost their lives. It 
is one of the world’s great laws that the good of a 
nation lies upon the shoulders of her men, and shall 
be held by the price of blood if necessary. It is only 
after war that we have peace. We hold the right by 
might, and our willingness to suffer for it.” 

“Yes, and such men as Mr. Blake, staying safely 
ajb home looking after his own affairs with watchful 
care, not even using his money to help on the war,” 
Nan cried, with stdl deeper bitterness; “and mak- 
ing no pretense of caring how the end shall come so 
long as it does not touch his pocket. A big, strong 
man like him to shrink, while hundreds nowhere 
near his strength or his stature, are fighting to the 
very last for their homes and their right. And, 
oh, he is very generous — for him — to ‘wait’ awhile, 
and give us a chance to recover his money ; and, of 

course, if it isn’t found Well, I’ll not talk of 

him to-night. We’re speaking of heroes.’-’ 

“For Mr. Blake to do even that,” Helen said, 
laughing, “is a great concession on his part, I as- 
sure you. Nan. You should feel greatly honored.” 

“Well, we’re not,” and Nan was fairly spiteful. 
“He has no right to demand the return of his money. 
He ran every risk of losing it, and it wasn’t father’s 
fault. I’d like to know if father didn’t lose almost 
as much as he.” 

“But that isn’t the thing, Nan,” the squire said, 
as though despairing of ever making his daughter 
see the business side of the matter. “This money 


AT A GIRL’S MERCY. 


49 


was in my possession when it was stolen, conse- 
quently I am held responsible for it/’ 

“I don’t see how,” Nan still protested, in warm 
defense of his rights. ‘‘I don’t see how he can hold 
you responsible any more than for a horse of his 
that might be stolen from the stables when he hired 
stable room of you, or requested the room for his 
animal over night, or anything else of his he might 
leave in your house or on your estate.” 

Her father laughed. 

‘‘I have done my best to convince you of the right 
and wrong of it,” he said, “and now all I can do is 
to let things prove themselves. At any rate, this de- 
lay in settlement is an advantage to me. I have so 
much more time to retrieve myself, you see,” turn- 
ing to Helen. “It is well business doesn’t lie in your 
hands under the circumstances, for I tremble at 
what might happen.” 

“Nothing very serious,” Nan retorted, saucily, 
her spirits rising under her father’s laughter, so good 
for her to hear. “Nothing more serious than your 
utter surprise at our success, for if business were in 
our hands we’d make it a special study, and master 
the art just as soon as you, grand lords of creation. 
Maybe we don’t understand business because you 
don’t give us a chance. When you come home from 
the office you lock the doors and lock in your busi- 
ness, and wo at home seldom hear of it save as 
something so far beyond us as not to be discussed 
with us or in our presence ; and then you turn upon 
us when we offer a remark or a suggestion as to 
business, and tell us calmly we say so and so be- 
cause we don’t understand business. Oh, you think 
it’s just to put us aside and honestly believe we are 
not capable of grasping the intricate machinery be- 


50 


AT A GIRLS MERCY. 


cause you shut it from us, just as you know nothing 
about the frigid zone because of the ice-barred pas- 
sage. You men should be just to us as well as gener- 
ous.’^ 

'Thew!” exclaimed the squire, with renewed ani- 
mation at this totally unexpected development of 
his daughter’s character. “What’s this, what’s this 
that I hear! Miss Courtland, the pretty belle, giving 
us a lecture on our business life and our manners. 
Heigho, but Travers should hear that, Helen. And 
I’m sure Mr. Blake would learn something to his 
advantage from such an eloquent discourse.” 

“Well,” Nan maintained, stoutly, though a flush 
crept to her cheeks at mention of Captain Travers, 
“jmu may laugh at me all you wish, papa, it’s the 
truth, and you know it— every single word. Nell 
knows it, too, though she would never show her 
knowledge save by going down in camp and nurs- 
ing the wounded and dying, with a patience and a 
sweetness beyond the power of any man who laughs 
at the weakness of women. ‘Frailty’ forsooth! 
What would men do without us, I’d like to know?” 

“Don’t call up such a horrible condition,” her fa- 
ther rejoined, laughing in his quiet, hearty way. 
Then a sudden remembrance of the woman up stairs 
— the dearest woman in the world to him during the 
years of their married life, and they had been many 
— who, at any moment, nay, at that very moment, 
might be taken from him, and his mood changed, 
and he was again very still behind the columns of 
the paper. 

“Poor papa!” Nan whispered, lifting her wet eyes 
to her friend, as they stood together in the hall be- 
fore parting, and the woman who had accompanied 
Helen was donning her hat in the servants’ hall. 


AT A GJIiL'S MERCr. 


61 


^‘Poor, dear papa, Helen! What would he do — what 
would any of us do, if ’’ 

The thought was terrible, and she was incapable 
of finishing the sentence, but Helen understood, and 
for answer stooped and kissed the girl’s quivering 
red mouth. 

‘'And now, good-by, Nan,” she said, bravely. 
“Ned told me he has said his good-by. He would 
not come with me to-night,” she was smoothing 
over and over one of the -tiny curls around her 
finger, that fell so bewitchingly on the fair fore- 
head of her friend. “You shall hear from me as 
regularly as circumstances will permit, but you 
must make allowances for all the letters you do not 
receive. I know how much you will wish to hear, 
and so far as possible you shall not be disappointed. 
Keep up a brave heart, dear, and all will be well. 
You shall pray for me, and I will pray for you. Nan, 

and if ” her voice, too, broke for a moment in its 

brave utterance ; but she took up the woirds again 
steadily enough. “If either of your brothers come 
to me. Nan, be sure I will treat them well. And 
remember, I, too, have a brother in the war.” 

“Yes,” Nan said, ashamed of her tears before this 
girl’s brave soul. “Yes, I know; and I leave them 
all in your hands, Helen Travers. See that you do not 
violate the trust.” 

And then, after a silence, a whispered word or 
two, these two daughters of the Union had un- 
clasped their hands, and parted, who knows, save 
God, for how long, nor what should befall each ere 
another meeting in the silent, shadowy hall. 


52 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


CHAPTER V. 

A GLIMMER OF HOPE. 

A quiet moonlight evening in the heart of Vir- 
ginia ; a dark-eyed, dark-skinned girl sat alone at 
the wide east window in the kitchen at the Manse, 
set in the midst of its pines, with the odorous winds 
stealing stealthily through the faintly stirring 
boughs. 

The hour was late, and the girl alone, yet so busy 
with thoughts that she never felt the silence of the 
shadowy room, in which the only light was from 
the golden moon sailing up the open space between 
the trees, softly touching the lifted dark face with 
its wide, pathetic eyes. 

Presently the door opened noiselessly, but a subtle 
sense of eiKcitement entered the room with the man 
who strode to the girl’s side. She arose, confronting 
him with a soft word of welcome. 

'T thought you’d gone long ’go, Mr. Brown,” she 
said, lifting her large black eyes to the face near 
her, her nostrils dilating with the strange excite- 
ment that pervaded the room at his entrance. He 
was a tall young fellow, with the black eyes and 
hair and peculiar skin that at first might mislead 
one into thinking him a Spaniard, but when he 
spoke, his nationality was clearly that of the girl. 
He laid his hand on her arm, not roughly, but with 
an air of command as he said, in a hushed voice : 

‘‘Yo’ know ’t I couldn’ go ’thout yo’, Lola. Ef 
’twere to save my life, ’stead o’ my freedom, yo’ 
know ’t I couldn’ go ’thout yo’. I’se tole yo’ of ’en 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


53 


’nough *t I lov’ yo’, an’ spite o’ startin’ out ter git 
free — for we’d a-been mos’ ter ther States by now — 
I lef’ ther others ter go on ef they would, an’ kern 
back fer yo’. Will yo’ go now, Lola Richy? I ain’t 
a-goin’ ter take no foolin’ this time. I’se tole yo’ ’t 
I lov’ yo’, an’ lov’ is fer life, an’ ef yo’ ain’t a-goin’ 
ter git ’way — an’ we’s bofe free, yo’ an’ me, by rights 
— why, I’se ’bout made up my min’ ter stay boun’, 
too. But yo’s got ter mak’ up yo’ min’ purty quick, 
fer I’se ter meet ther res’ of ’em in ha’f an hour, an’ 
I wants time ter git thar ’thout bein’ cotched. De 
sojers is mighty nigh ther creek, an’ I’se got ter be 
powerfu’ keerfu’ not ter hev ’em down on me like 
a pile o’ hot cakes. What’ll yo’ do, Lola?” 

The warm red of the girl’s dark cheeks had faded, 
but there was a gleam in her eyes,, and a line of 
sternness about her mouth, that boded well or ill for 
the eager suitor who would give up his chance of 
freedom for her sake. 

‘T’se tole yo’, Mr. Brown, ’t I’d go — yo’ know ’t 
I’d go in a minnet ef ’t warn’t fer mammy— but I 
can’t hav’ my freedom ’thout mammy. She’s free 
as we, or oughter be, fer she wasn’t rightfully a 
slave, as yo’ know, an’ I can’t leave her. She’d giv’ 
her life fer us, if she could, an’ I can’t go ter ther 
States an’ be free an’ know ’t she’s lef’ down thar 
boun’. Ef she could go, I’d go in a minnet, Mr. 
Brown, an’ yo’ know ’t, but I can’t leave mammy.” 

“Well, yo’ know she can’t go, Lola, fer we can’t 
git her ’thout bein’ cotched by the sojers, an’ worse 
of ’ll ever. Ef we could git her, we’d git her, but we 
can’t, an’ ter stay boun’ yo’se’f ain’t a-goin’ ter 
mak’ her happ’r; ef she think so much o’ yo’ ’s yo’ 
say, she’ll be powerfu’ glad ter hab yo’ go git free- 
dom ’way frum here, where a culled pusson ain’ no 


54 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


mo’ ’count ’n a dog, an’ not lia’f ’s much some- 
times. But I can’t be a-foolin’. Ef yo’ ’ll go, say 
so; ef yo’ won’t go, say thet, too, on’y be quick, I 
tell yer, fer time is a-passin’.” 

The girl turned from the room, and passed out to 
the little porch at the door, with a motion of her 
hand for her companion to follow her. 

The house was near the bank of the James River, 
and listening intently, one could catch the far-off 
sound of camp-life, and the gleam and flash of the 
Are now and then when the faint breeze lifted the 
flames. 

Out on the porch, in view of this Confederate en- 
campment, the girl paused. She was trembling with 
excitement, but her voice was soft and mellow when 
she spoke. Her eyes were large and luminous, and 
looked off away from her companion to the round 
full moon climbing above the pines like a peaceful 
queen. 

“Et’s safer here,” Lola said; ‘‘we ain’t nebber 
shu’ ’t some one ain’t a-watchin’ an’ list’nin’ ter 
git outen us what we’s up ter. I ain’t nebber cotched 
one, no,” she hastened to add, in her low voice, soft 
with the languor of the South, as a flash in her com- 
panion’s eyes warned her what would follow treach- 
ery ; “but I don’ want ter giv’ ’em a chance ter git 
at me.” 

“They’d better leav’ yo’ ’lone,” the man said, 
again laying his hand on her arm. “Ef theys fetch 
yo’ ” 

He broke off suddenly, glancing up at the mount- 
ing moon. 

“Tell me quick!” he whispered, and only she 
could hear. “Ef it’s yes or no, say it, fer I’se ter be 
at ther creek in a few minnets, an’ can’t wait. Et’s 


AT A QIRVS MERCY. 


55 


freedom an’ a resk fer it .or slavery, an’ mebby no 
resk, but a powerfu’ sight vrorse. So choose, an’ I’ll 
be off.” 

To get away from the chains that bound her un- 
lawfully ; to be free — free as she should be, but for 
man’s treachery; to get to the North, where all 
men were free, the white and the black— free as God 
made them, each with his life and his soul to make 
or mar. And all she need do was to go with this 
man as he wished, to follow his directions with no 
responsibility upon her but to obey ; to be married— 
that was his plan — as soon as they should reach a 
place where it would be possible, and then to go to 
Boston, where they would be safe, and live their 
lives as they would. But how could she do this, 
and leave her mother still in bondage, a bondage 
that had always been hateful to her, bound as she 
was through a white man’s treachery, ay, and 
bound, without any bonds, to another white man, 
through treachery worse than the first. 

The page of her life flashed up in the heart of the 
mulatto as she stood with her lover watching the 
cloudless moon. 

Her grandmother, one of the Shawnee tribe of In- 
dians, had been bound out to a gentleman until she 
was eighteen ; then she was to be given her liberty, 
and left free, to go where she pleased. Instead of 
this, the man, who had treated her well enough, but 
was too much given to the races and the gaming 
table to hesitate if one of his servants stood in the 
way, had taken her to a town some seventy miles 
from his home, promising her at the end of the jour- 
ney the papers that would set her free. And then, 
when he left her at a house to go out, presumably to 
attend to some business in regard to these papers. 


56 


AT A Gmrs MERCY. 


but did not return, she learned, when she asked of 
a lady in the room why he did not return, she 
learned the bitter, crushing truth — that he had sold 
her only the dav before to the lady of the house 
where she was. 

The bitterness of her lot, free as she should have 
been at that moment, free as the birds of the air, 
yet bound irrevocably for life, with only the bare 
drop of sweet in her cup from her good-natured mis- 
tress that she would arrange in her will that she 
should never be sold again after her death — the bit- 
terness settled upon her like the chill of death, 
creeping up and up from faint comprehension to a 
full knowledge of what was upon her. And what 
could she do? She knew nothing of law, nothing of 
a way to right her wrong ; all men who had author- 
ity were against her, and would let the man go free ; 
she had nowhere to turn, and she bore the blow as 
many another such has been borne. 

By and by she married. Her husband was a 
sailor, in whose veins ran the purest African blood. 
He was kind to her when he was at home, and when 
her baby came, her heart was softened and her 
bonds almost forgotten. Then, when the child grew 
with a wild beauty of her own, with the high-spir- 
ited free blood of the forest and the hot deserts of 
the East in her veins, and the mother, even in bond- 
age, watched her grow and ripen to womanhood, in 
love and pride, the best loved of all her children, 
the blow fell upon them from the treachery of 
another white man who had promised the girl her 
freedom, promised her all things for her good, that 
her wrong should be righted and her life made 
happy— for to her proud spirit it was like death to 
be bound in slavery — and had violated his trust, and 


AT A GlltrS MERCY. 


57 


instead of the promised freedom her life was ruined 
— her life and her soul. And when the father came 
home from a voyage and found a babe in his daugh- 
ter’s arms, and no ring on her finger, his proud 
spirit arose, and he swore to kill her for the evil she 
had brought upon him and his name ; but his anger 
was cooled by the soft words of his wife and the 
beauty of the child — his first grandchild— and the 
baby lived and thrived, and here she was also grown 
to womanhood, standing on the brink of freedom 
with a lover waiting her word, and the mother who 
had toiled early and late for money to hire herself, 
her mother and her child from their master — the 
mother who would gladly give her life for hers, who 
would think no torture too hard to endure if her 
daughter would so escape it — the mother, bound with 
the cruel chains that had galled her proud spirit and 
eaten at her heart — the mother was far away, and if 
she accepted this chance of freedom she must take 
it without her. 

Could she leave her? Could she go away know- 
ing to what her mother was left? But, after all, 
what good could she do her by remaining? She 
would, only be an added burden, an added expense, 
and if she got away from the South free, with a 
home of her own, could she not in some way then 
secure her mother’s freedom also? 

The thoughts came and went like flashes of light, 
so swift that her lover still stood waiting, his hand 
on her shoulder, for her decision. He could not ask 
her to decide too quickly; he knew what he was 
asking, and how much sweet there was with the 
bitter. And there was his love, and there was her 
freedom, and he waited patiently for her answer, 
quite sure what it would be. 


68 


AT A OIEVS MERCY. 


One swift glance up at the quiet moon, a mute 
prayer in her heart that her mother might know, 
and she turned quietly to her companion, her dark 
eyes meeting his steadily. 

“I will go,’* she said, and he bent his head to 
hear. “1 trust yo’, Jim. When ’ll I be reddy?” 

“At nine o’clock at night, day after to-morrow,” 
he answered, briefly, but he stooped to kiss her. She 
drew herself back proudly, and her eyes flashed 
with a new light. 

“Not yet,” she said, quietly. “Wait till we’s free. 
There’s much to go throo ’et ’ll be men’s work. 
Treat me as a man till it’s over. An’ ef yo’ prove 

untrue ” There was a strange tingling sound 

in her voice, but her eyes flnished the sentence. 

A flush and a frown darkened his face under the 
soft moonlight ; he drew himself up, as though by 
so doing he shook off his chains forever ; his voice 
was deep with passion when he spoke. 

“Ef yo’se got no mo’ faith in me ’n that, Lola, 
mebby it’d be bes’ fer yo’ ter stay boun’ an’ a 
slabe,” he said. “Freedom ain’t fer them ’ts cow- 
ards, an’ worse.” 

Her eyes were gentle as the moonlight when she 
lifted them to his face ; her voice was low and mel- 
low. 

“Ain’t Ise tole yo’ ’t Ise trus’ yo’, Jim? But 
there’s others ’t hav’ trusted ’fore now to their sor- 
row. I on’y warn yo’. Ef yo’ lov’ me as yo’ say, 
there ain’t no need o’ warnin’ yo’. Tell me wot I’ll 
do.” 

Her words quieted his anger. Time was passing, 
and he must hasten ; he knew well the consequences 
that would follow discovery in their plan. 

“By nine o’ Sat’day night — this ’s Thu’sd’y — be 


AT A GIRLS MERCY. 


59 


reddy et yo’ winder. I’ll be underneath, an’ when 
I tap ’gainst ther wall like this,” he struck lightly 
the stone side of the house near them, “yo’se ter 
creep down stairs still’s yo’ kin, an’ meet me here. 
There’s ten o’ us a-goin ; we’s got a boat hid in ther 
brush below in the ribber, an’ we’s ter git there 
’thout mo’ noise ’n we kin help, min’ yo’ dat, else de 
sojers’ll git us shuah. An’ as there’s ter be mos’ly 
men, Lola, mebby it’d be bes’ fer yo’ ter go ’long as 
one, tell we’s git some’ers whar dere ain’t no danger, 
fer yo’ couldn’t run nohow as yo’d want ter run ef 
ther sojers did git after us, with yo’ long gowns 
a-trailin’ arfter us. Don’ yo’ breathe dis to no one, 
an’ be reddy sharp. Yo’ know de consequences o’ 
bein’ foun’ out.” 

A cold terror struck the girl ; she shivered in the 
heat of the summer night ; her hand was like ice 
as it touched his, and she merely nodded — she 
dared not speak. Knew? Ay, truly she knew. There 
had been such things before, and the end was death 
— death— shot like brutes or mad, wild creatures, by 
men who had no mercy for their defenseless slaves, 
who set the blood-hounds on their tracks and hunted 
them to death. Yes, she knew — but death, after all 
— death, even here in the morning of her life — death 
was preferable to life with chains cutting her heart 
and her hopes. 

A slow smile — so slow and sad in its intensity 
that the man’s heart throbbed with a new and 
deeper determination to win in the struggle for her 
sake — broke the stony lines of her face ; the color 
returned to the dark cheeks, and the eyes were glow- 
ing with dawning hope. 

‘T ain’t ’fraid,” she said, and a mellow laugh 
stirred her parted lips. ‘‘After all, Mr. Brown, wes 


60 


AT A QIRLS MERCY. 


ain’t got nothin’ ter do in this but ther bes’ we kin, 
an’ ther Lawd’ll tend ther res’. Ef we’s ter be free, 
we’ll git thar, an’ ef we ain’t, we ain’t. Et’s a-get- 
tin’ late, an’ I won’t keep yo"' no longer, on’y tak’ 
care o’ yo’se’f. Ther sojers is over thar, an’ dey’s 
watchin’ — nebber yo’ fear but dey’s watchin’. Dey 
ain’t a-goin’ ter gib us up ter Mr. Linkum ’thout 
fightin’ fer it.” 

'‘Yo’ ’s ’bout right dere, Lola,” the man said, and 
he laughed, too, looking down into her bright eyes 
that met his so bravely; “but Mr. Linkum’s men 
kin fight, too. Oh, dey’s all a-goin’ ter fight ef 
fightin’ ’s what yo’ want. Well, I’se goin’, an’ don’ 
yo’ fergit what I tole yo’.” 

She shrugged her shoulders scornfully, and flashed 
a merry glance at him. A new spirit seemed to 
have taken possession of her with the thoughts of 
freedom. 

“Fergit,” she said. “Would yo’ be lik’ly ter fer- 
git ef yo’ were goin’ ter hab a million dollars lef’ 
yo’? Beckon not; an’ dat’s de same way wid me. 
Good-night, Jim.” 

She watched him pass the flood of moonlight in 
the lower path, and then melt among the shadows 
of the shrubbery, as though he, too, were but a 
shadow ; then she entered the house, and fastening 
the window and the door, putting the key of the lat- 
ter in her pocket, she went down to Mammy Judy’s 
cabin, where she lived. Biit it was among the 
wee hours of the morning ere she fell asleep, for her 
mind was too active to allow of sleep. 

Whether or not they would succeed in getting 
away, and if they did, what they would find in the 
new home they sought, all these thoughts kept her 
eyes wide open for hours after she had lain down. 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


6 ] 


Of the end that would come if they were caught— 
the end of her life almost at its beginning — she 
scarcely yet could think with calmness. Of her 
mother, so many miles away, who could not dream 
of what her daughter was planning, her thoughts 
lingered longest, and with her lover, who would 
share unlawful bondage with her rather than ac- 
cept freedom alone. And then her thoughts went 
out to the man, and he was a good man, whom her 
mother wished her to marry, who had fairly wrung 
a promise from her on her last visit home — for her 
mother still hired her child from her master, and 
sent her out to service— that she would think of the 
offer made her, though she did not and never could 
love him. A minister with a kindly heart, who 
would give her a good home compared with her 
home, and who would so place her out of harm’s 
way by giving her his name. She knew it was the 
mother love and fear that wished this for her, that 
would by so doing protect her from such a bitter 
fate as her own. But would it not be as well to 
marry this man whom she was bringing herself to 
love? 

Then a new and somewhat troublous thought arose 
in her mind. Could she go away as she was plan- 
ning, and leave the other girls in the house to the 
fate she would escape? One of these girls was very 
young, barely fifteen, and who, if she kept to the 
promise of beauty she then gave, would find life 
more dangerous and harder than it was then, and 
her life was hard enough, for the others seemed to 
have a hatred for her, and placed on her the hard- 
est work and any blame they could. No; she would 
not leave her, anyway, and she would gladly go, she 
knew — gladly take the risk, and bear all hardships 


62 


AT A GIBL'S MEBCY. 


to be free. Yes, Nina should go; Jim told her to 
tell no one, but Nina was different; and if she told 
Nina, why not the others, and give them the chance 
with her? They would accept — they must accept; 
and if they did not— well, she could not go and 
leave them without giving them the chance. 

And then sleep stole upon her, mingling in her 
dreams thoughts of her lover and her mother, and 
the opening of the new life ; and dangers and ter- 
rors which she had never thought of came to her 
then; and with the first gleams of daylight she 
awoke, cold with horror and trembling lest it be 
true. But after awhile, with a prayer for strength, 
she took up her daily duties, and no one guessed 
from her manner that anything unusual would hap- 
pen. 


CHAPTER VI. 

WAITING FOR DEATH. 

Nina was crossing the hall when Lola stopped her 
with a gesture. It was at the lower end of the hall 
near a window overlooking the James, and in the 
farther distance the moving figures of the camp and 
the glitter of sunlight now and then hashing on 
sword and bayonet. Lola’s finger was on her lip, 
and Nina waited silently for her to speak. 

‘T’se a-goin’ ’way from hyar to-morrow, Nina,” 
Lola said, her voice so low the other had to watch 
her lips to understand. “Keep still fo’ yo’ life. Ef 

enyone should kno’ ” she paused for a moment, 

glancing behind, but the younger girl knew full 
well her meaning ; her eyes grew wide with an un- 
known terror; she knew nothing of hope. ‘T’se 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


63 


goin' ’way up No’th with some others,” Lola con- 
tinued, satisfied that no one was spying upon them. 
“We’s goin’ ter git ’way quiet to-morrer nig:ht, an’ 
•git up No’th an’ be free— free, do yo’ hyar dat, 
Nina?” 

The girl nodded. She had heard of freedom ; she 
knew that Mr. Lincoln and the men up North were 
fighting to set them free, which their masters said 
was impossible, and that this girl dared even think 
of escaping to freedom was past her comprehension. 

‘‘Yo’ ’s to keep yo’ mouth shet,” Lola went on, 
still in that low, monotonous voice only her compan- 
ion could understand. “Doan’ yo* dar’ breethe thes 
fer yo’ life. But ef yo’ wants ter git ’way, too, an’ 
be free an’ like odder folks as ain’t treated like 
dawgs, yo’ ken come wid us. Bar’s a good deal ter go 
t ’rough, but when we gits dar whar eberybody’s his 
own master like our master hyar— culled folks an’ 
awl— doan’ yo’ t’ink et’ll pay fer eberyt’ing wes hab 
ter stall’ ter git thar — de col’, an’ de hungry, an’ de 
wadin’ froo de swamps, an’ mebby de sojers an’ de 
blood-houn’s, an’ awl? Et may be awl dat, an’ et 
may be mo’, an’ likewise et may be none o’ et, but 
Ise wants yer ter kno’ de whole. Et’s powerfu’ 
hyard ter git our freedom, but et’ll pay ef we git et, 
an’ de Lawd an’ Mr. Linkum’ll se’t we’s awl right 
w’en wes git up No’th. Es yo’ fer goin’, Nina? Ef 
yo’ stay, t’ings’ll be a-gittin’ wuss an’ wuss tell vo’ 
wish yo’ nebber been bawn. Ise know mown yo’ 
do, chile; I’se seed et awl; an’ et ’ll be starv’ an’ 
starv’ w’en de war gits wuss, fer de w’te folks an’ 
de sojers’ll eat eberyting up, an’ nothin’ lef’ fer de 
culled folks ’cept de bones wid de dawgs. Es yo’ 
goin’, Nina?” 

The girl was trembling with excitement between 


64 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


her desire to go, as Lola said, and be free, away 
from the South, and her fear of the consequences, 
for there was not a negro in the South but knew 
what followed an unsucessful attempt for freedom. 
And still hundreds of them accepted the dangers 
and struggled out of bondage, accepting even life 
in the swamps to the cruel chains and heavy bur- 
dens of slavery. 

“Yo’s shure dey won’t fin’ et out, Lola, an’ kill 
us?” whispered the girl, excitedly. “Yo’ shure ob 
dat?” 

Lola laid her hand kindly on her companion’s 
shoulder — the shoulder that bore more than one 
mark of the lash. 

‘‘Ise cawn’t promise yo’ dat fer certain, Nina; 
dey may fin’ us, an’ may shoot us, but fer my part 
I’d radder die dan lib lik’ dis. Et’s worse’n de’th a 
hunned time, Nina, an’ ef we go, a-puttin’ our trus’ 
in de Lawd A’mighty, He’ll see’t we’s took car’ ob. 
De culled folks has as good a chance wid Him as de 
w’ite folks— Mr. Johnsing tells us so ebery Sabb’th 
day, chile.” 

“Yes,” Nina said, indifferently. It seemed to her 
that the Lord wasn’t specially good to them when 
he allowed such suffering and cruelty to fall upon 
them, and just then if she could get away she would 
have more faith in her own powers of stealth and 
endurance than in the hand of the Lord. 

“Well, I’ll go,” she said, setting her teeth firmly 
together. “I’ll resk et, too, Lola. Et can’t be 
worse’n de’th.” 

Lola pressed her hand affectionately down upon 
her shoulder. 

“We’s ter go as men,” she said. “Dress yo’se’f 


AT A QIRVS MERCY, 


65 


’cordin^ly, Nina, an’ be’t my room at ha’f-pas’ eight, 
ennyhow. Doan’ dar’ speak ob it fer yo’ life.” 

Yes,” Nina said, turning the conversation sud- 
denly, with wonderful self-control, as one of the 
other women came up. 

When Nina passed on to her work, leaving the 
two alone, Lola, with a strengthening of her resolu- 
tion, told the story in a few graphic words, and 
gained the woman’s consent with little persuasion. 

‘‘Et’s better ter be shot than ter slav’ an’ slav’ fer 
nothin’,” she said, stolidly. ‘‘Yes, I go wid yo’, Lola. 
Yo’ ’s kin’ ter ask, w’en yo’ might ’a’ gone wid less 
trouble by yo’se’f.” 

Lola smiled gravely. 

“Et would al’ays a stuck in my min’ an’ spoiled 
my life ef I ’d gon’ ’thout tellin’ yo’ an’ givin’ yo’ 
a chance,” she said. “I’se mighty glad yo’ ’s made 
up yo’ min’ dis way, Mississippi.” 

“Et’d be bigger fool’n me ter gib et de go-by,” 
Mississippi said, bitterly. “Et’s all well ’nough fer 
dem as wants ter wait fer Mr. Linkum ter git ’em 
free, fer git ’em free he will, but ef we’s got a 
chance ter git ’way now, we’s powerfu’ big fools as 
wants ter stay.” 

“I ain’t feared o’ yo’ backin’ out,” Lola said, 
laughing softly. “I hop’ de odders’ll on’y be 
reddy.” 

“W’at odders?” asked Mississippi. “I tho’t yo’ 
tole me yo’ tell no one ’bout et fer fear o’ gettin’ 
cotched, fer yo’ kno’ ef dey cotch us dey shoot us 
like a passel o’ dawgs. Dey had dere eye on us long 
time, an’ we’d be got outen de way powerfu’ sud- 
den ef we is cotched, Lola. Dey nebber ’low us ter 
git ’way ef dey kin help et.” 

“I tole yo’ dere odders goin’,” Lola said, quietly. 


66 


AT A QIRVS MERCY. 


‘‘Dars ten ob dem side ourse’ves.’’ She said nothing 
about Nina. She must be sure of the woman before 
she implicated others in her plot. 

“Well,” Mississippi said, coolly, am’ got 
nothin’ ’gainst odders goin’. Ef dey is goin’ ’long, 
let ’em; I ain’t got nothin’ ter say ’bout that; an’ 
ef I’se goin I’se goin’ ; dey can’t keep me frum git- 
tin’ my freedum ef I’se willin’ ter fight fer et. Ise 
ain’ got no quest’ns ter ask. Yo’ ’s goin’ an’ I’se 
goin’, let de odders be whomever dey is. ’Tain’ none 
o’ my business, chile. Ise go fas’ ’nough.” 

She started down the hall lest they be seen to- 
gether, and rouse suspicion ; but she suddenly turned 
back to where Lola stood at the window, her heart 
full of thankfulness that so far she need fear no 
harm from betrayal. 

“Ef I wus yo’, chile,” she said, very low, glanc- 
ing around over her shoulder to see that no one else 
could hear, “I’d be keerfu’ how I tole or let Cl’issa 
hear ob et. She ain’ so good friend as she wouldn’t 
tell ob us jes’ fer spitefulness. She ain’ too good fer 
it, I tell y o’.” 

Lola’s own mind was unsettled about Clarissa, 
and Mississippi’s words sent a chill to her heart, 
though her purpose was strong as ever to give her a 
chance with them. But it was not till toward night 
that the oppotunity came to her to tell* the woman. 
They were walking together down to the quarters, 
and there was no danger of listeners. For an instant 
the girl’s heart went up in prayer that no harm 
should come to her or her friends through the words 
she would utter ; then very quietly and concisely 
she told her of their plan of escape, and waited with 
her heart in her mouth for the answer that would 
mean life or death to them ; for if the woman re- 


AT A GIEL'S 3fERCr. 


67 


fused to go with them she would of course expose 
them, and the consequences would be death. 

For a moment she made no reply, but there was 
an ominous twitching of the hard mouth and a 
gleam in the cold eyes that boded ill for her cause. 

A pallor was stealing over Lola’s face, but she 
controlled herself by a strong effort, and walked on 
with her companion in silence. Finally the woman 
spoke— it seemed ages to Lola waiting— and her 
voice was cold as steel. 

“I ain’t sech a fool as ter go,” she said, scornfully. 
‘‘No; I ain’t a-goin’, Lola Richy.” 

A hand of ice closed around Lola’s heart, a wild 
horror seized upon her. The end must come, then, 
in this way. Death was to close the scene. Only 
one night of life, and then— for, of course, the 
woman would disclose the secret. She had never 
been friendly to them, and now she would have her 
revenge. 

With a wild prayer unuttered, and her lips so 
parched she could scarcely control them, she turned 
to her companion for one last appeal, an appeal not 
only for herself, but for the lives of her friends, 
though she gave no hint of this. It was for her life 
she would have spoken, and left the others free, but 
when she turned the woman was gone, and she did 
not see her again that night. 

There was little sleep for Lola. The thoughts 
crowded upon her swift as lightning, deadly as the 
lightning in their intensity. That she must die — 
die on the morrow as only a dog would die. Shot 
down in her health and strength and the first flush 
of her life. And freedom had been so near it seemed 
to her that she must go on. In a tumult of terror, 
and prayer, and crying against her fate, the greater 


68 


AT A OIRrS MERCY. 


part of the night was passed, but as morning dawned, 
the terror and crying ceased, and she grew quiet 
from the very depth of fear. 

If she had done as her lover wished ; if she had 
kept her own counsel, and gone alone with him and 
his friends, or if she had told only the two whom she 
felt so certain of, this terrible thing would not have 
happened to her and now to the other two, for, of 
course, all would be examined, and Nina, for one, 
she knew, would not lie to save herself, and confes- 
sion of the truth would mean death. Yet she could 
not have gone — she knew she could not have gone 
and left them without a chance. No; she said it 
to herself even then, and somehow it gave her cour- 
age— she could not have gone without an effort for 
them also ; she could not have stolen away to her 
happiness, and left them bound. 

Die? Ay, she could die if she must, she need be 
no coward, though life was sweet to her, though life 
must be sweet in spite of its sorrows. 

Strange, she said to herself, smiling with an odd 
feeling that it was of some one else she was think- 
ing, for some one else she was deciding — strange 
what a hold life had on one in spite of the deadly 
struggle and bitterness. Bej^'ond the ‘‘Valley of 
the Shadows” lay peace, and yet she clung with 
such pathetic tenacity to the hill difficulty of life, 
with the cruel burdens and the bitter lash of bond- 
age — clung to it, and life that was so sweet wuth a 
sweetness that crowded down the bitter. 

If death must come — well, death must come to all, 
but here on the threshold of life and only because 
she would be free, as God intended all men should 
be, and because she would help her comrades to a 
share of the happiness she hoped for. 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


69 


Her face was set like stone as she arose and 
dressed. Day was creeping into her room in a dull 
gray light; it would be a stormy day, she knew; 
and she smiled still in that stony fashion, thinking 
how her life set in with the day— her life to end 
stormily in death. 

And how sorry her lover would be, she said to her- 
self— how very sorry he would be when he knew she 
was dead— dead in the warm flush of her life, with 
the death of a dog to stain her memory. But he 
would not blame her— yes, she was quite, quite sure 
he would not blame her for this that she had done. 
She had disobeyed his command, and he was not 
one to take such disobedience lightly, he had the 
flery blood of his Spanish father in his veins, and he 
would not brook the crossing of his will ; still she 
knew he would only be very, very sorry she was 
dead. 

The smile seemed to have frozen on her lips ; it 
was set and terrible in its apathy. She seemed to 
have no feeling, to have gone out of herself, and 
thought pityingly of herself as of one she knew and 
could not help. 

It was very sad, she said, a young life shut out 
from the light of day and the throb and the passion 
of love by the cold touch of a bullet. And how would 
it feel when it should strike, and would she die at 
once or linger in an agony, as so many did— as so 
many of the soldiers were doing? Poor girl, poor 
girl ! And she must stand aside and let it go on — 
this strange, sad ending of a life. 

She was sorry, very sorry, and what would tlie 
lover say — the lover whose name had somehow 
slipped her memory, but who was very tender with 
her and very generous to come back for her when 


70 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


he might have been free from the South by then. 
He was a kind lover, very kind, and he would be 
sorry, so sorry she was dead. She felt the close 
touch of his hand on her arm, and looked up slowly 
with a vague sense that she would like to see what 
he looked like--this lover, who was so kind— and 
found no one there, no one in all the terrible room 
but this strange, still woman, who would be dead 
by to-morrow. Her heart must be dead, she thought, 
for she had no special feeling save an unmoved sor- 
row for the girl who was to die so soon, and she so 
young and blameless, save a wish to help her sister 
women, one of whom would betray her. 

She knelt down to pray, and then looked up out of 
the tiny window close under the roof, and wondered 
— and the smile was still on her face — why she was 
down there? She didn’t know how to pray; she 
wasn’t a child any more, and only children prayed. 
A cold, dead woman like her couldn’t pray ; she had 
no feeling, and one couldn’t pray without that. Oh, 
yes, there was a God — she was quite sure there was 
a, God, but she couldn’t just place Him. He was a 
terrible Being miles and miles away from her, 
whom she could not reach if she tried, and why 
should she try when she was dead? Dead people did 
not pray ; they were either with God or away from 
Him, and she was sure she was not with Him. Ho, 
she was not dead either ; but she was turning into 
stone, and would be dead before to-morrow. The 
poor girl ! It was too bad, and she so young. 

But she had prayed. Oh, yes, she had prayed. 
She remembered now that she had prayed all the 
night through to this God miles and miles away, 
and He hadn’t heard her, and she would soon be 
dead. She had prayed for life and her lover, or that 


71 


AT A GIRL'S MERCT. 

she. might welcome death when it came, and she 
was only turning to stone before they shot her be- 
fore the cold lead 

She started and shivered, the set smile slowly 
faded from her lips, and her teeth began to chatter. 
After all, she wasn’t dead, only it was so cold turn- 
ing to stone. It was so sad. A poor young thing 
on the brink of death, and life was so warm, so 
beautiful and full of love. 

The poor girl, she said, and she looked pityingly 
down on the cold hands still clasped in prayer ; and 
she had done nothing — nothing ; she was only trying 
to be free, to help others to be free. That wasn’t a 
crime, surely that wasn’t a crime, and yet, poor girl, 
she must die for it. How was it right for one to die 
so when one had committed no crime? Was it a just 
God who allowed a man, because he was white, to 
take at will the life of a servant who had always 
been faithful, whose only fault— if fault it was— was 
a desire for freedom? Was it a just God who al- 
lowed this to g-o on? But, then, what had she to do 
with God? SJie, who was turning to stone, and 
would so soon be dead? 

A sudden revulsion of feeling swept over her ; she 
was trembling, shivering with excitement and ter- 
ror; she lifted her two clasped hands above her 
head, her lifted eyes tearless and burning. 

'‘Lawd !” she cried, in a tense whisper that shook 
her with dread. “Lawd, ef yo’ is pitifu’ an’ o’ ten- 
der murssy, es Mr. Johnsing tells us, doan’ let et 
happ’n, doan’ let et happ’n. Et’s cruel, Lawd, et 
cayn’t be right. The chile es so young an’ ain’ done 
no harm. Save her, Lawd, ef yo’ ’s pitifu’.” 

Then, with a wild sob struggling in her throat and 


72 


AT A QJBrS MERCY. 


strangling her, she fell forward upon the bed, clutch- 
ing the clothing in her trembling hands. 

How could she die, how could she die, how could 
she die? It was dreadful, dreadful, dreadful! But 
the Lord would help her— yes, the Lord would help 
her. Didn’t Mr. Johnson, the preacher, tell them 
that the Lord was exceeding pitiful and of tender 
mercy? 

♦ *♦***♦ 

Clarissa stopped her as she was entering the 
kitchen, and said shortly, no softening of her face 
or voice : 

‘‘I’se goin’, Lola. Ise may’s well git free es ther 
res’ ob yo.” 

And Lola caught hold of the siding of the door to 
steady herself in the first great wave of thankful- 
ness and hope. 


CHAPTER VII. 

FUGITIVES. 

Night had settled down in a drizzle of mist and a 
low soughing of the wind through the trees. 

“Et’s de chang’ ob de moon,” the plantation ne- 
groes said, for to them the change of the moon 
meant change of weather as well. “Et’s goin’ ter 
be a dirty night, sho’.” 

And a dirty night it was, dark, with the ghostly 
glimmer of the camp-fire in the distance flickering 
and flaring now and then in the rising and falling 
of the wind, but a night that gladdened the heart of 
Jim Brown, for who would hear distinctly their 
stealthy tread through the corn and rushes down 
the river, or notice so well the muffled ripples fol- 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


73 


lowing the oars of their boat? Ay, it was a night 
that would take them within its shadows, and shield 
them with its mist andjwailing wind voices. 

Jim was standing close in under Lola’s window, 
trying to still the beating of his heart that he might 
better listen, almost fearful of the consequences as 
he struck the stone wall of the house sharply with 
his stick, that he carried for self defense as well as 
support ; hut the wind wailed and swung the creak- 
ing boughs of the trees through the mist, and 
deadened the sound of his stroke into a sharp brush- 
ing of a bough against the house, and though the 
house was still, no one caught the suspicious sound. 

He waited breathlessly for what would follow. If 
Lola should not hear, or if she, too, mistook the 
noise, what could be done? Or if she were not 
ready, or thought they were not going because of 
the darkness, or if she had been discovered 

He dared go no further in his thoughts ; the con- 
sequences of discovery would be so terrible he could 
not bring himself to think of that, and he was 
pretty positive she loved him well enough not to 
give him up at the last. She was no coward, he 
knew; she would dare a regiment of soldiers, if 
need be, without flinching; still, waiting there in the 
night, with the ghostly darkness around him, and 
the silence that is full of sound, with the chance at 
any moment of being detected, many thoughts 
would come crowding in upon him, robbing him of 
his peace of mind. 

There was no sign nor sound at the window above, 
and Lola should have recognized his presence in 
some way. He had been waiting some time, and 
was growing decidedly impatient ; it was very un- 
kind of Lola, to say the least ; was she not his sweet- 


74 


AT A QIRVS MERCY, 


heart, soon to be his wife, and ought she not to do as 
he wished, ought she not to try to please him and 
not willfully expose him to danger? She was show- 
ing herself very thoughtless and careless of his com- 
fort or danger, and yet until then he had always 
thought her so tender hearted. 

A misty gust of wind swirled round the corner of 
the house, whirled round and round him a moment, 
and then died down, and as he glanced up, after 
brushing his hat back from his face, he was startled 
to see four shadowy figures, evidently men, beside 
him, as though blown there with the *wind and the 
mist. 

For a moment he dared not move ; perhaps they 
did not notice him, and he might by silence evade 
them; but a low, soft voice calling his name re- 
assured him, and grasping the girl’s round arm hid- 
den beneath a man’s rough coat, he whispered like 
a breath of the wind : 

“Lola! Who yo’ brought wid yo’? Ef yo’ giv’ us 
’way. I’ll ” 

The girl laughed noiselessly, though in the dark- 
ness he could not see the pallor in her face at the 
wound to her love. 

“We’s reddy, Jim,” she said. “Hadn’t wes bes’ 
git ter safety ’fore goin’ inter details? Et’s all right; 
ain’ that ’nough?” 

She lifted up her face to him in the darkness, 
and she could feel his breath against her cheek as 
he stooped to her, whispering in sudden passion : 

“Forgiv’ me, my darlin’— my brave darlin’!” 

“Cum,” she said, abruptly. “Doan’ be foolin’, 
Jim. Et’s time we wur goin’ ef we’s ter git off safe. 
These is my frien’s, an’ they’s goin’ ’long.” 

“I’se glad yo’ ’s sens’ble an’ w’ar clothes I’se tole 


AT A GIRL’S MERCY. 


75 


yo' ter/’ he said presently. ‘‘Nobuddy’d tak’ yo’ 
fer nothin’ but a lot o’ men,” and he, too, laughed 
noiselessly. “Why dedn’t yo’ cum befo’, Lola?” 

“We’s come right down’s soon as we heard yo’,” 
Lola said, still in the strange, weird whisper that 
ran in with the sound of the wind, though audible 
to her companion. “We hed ter cum slow, Jim, an’ 
caut’ous fer fear they’s watching us. Dey’s had dar 
eyes on us fer some time, an’ we cum car’ful — spec- 
ial car’fu’ fer dat.” 

“They’s waitin’ fer us,” Jim said presently, tak- 
ing the girl’s small bundle, which she explained 
contained all the food she could get without rousing 
suspicion, as they started across the wide old gar- 
den like formless shadows. “Keep still, an’ do as 
yo’ see me do. De sojers is near us, an’ wes ain’ 
goin’ ter git cotched ef wes kin help et.” 

Down through the garden, brushing under the low 
hung trees, bringing down a misty shower upon 
their shoulders, creeping through the thick hedge 
that fenced in the lawn from the field, and so, 
stealthily, silently, slowly they made their way, 
every sudden sigh of the wind, every sharp touch of 
the mist thrilling them with terror and a deadly 
sickness lest they be discovered. 

A dog bayed back in the kennels, and an icy chill 
took hold of their hearts. The blood-hounds ! Were 
they loosening them? Were they on their track so 
soon? But the mournful cry died away; the night 
was still again, and the fugitives crept on with bated 
breath. Crack-crackje, crunch, crunch. It was 
startlingly loud. Jim dropped like a noiseless 
shadow fiat on his face, and those behind him fol- 
lowed his example. They were in a corn-field, and 
the stalks, bent on the ground by the wind, broke 


76 


AT A amrs mercy. 


under their weight as they crept along. It was on 
the very edge of the camp ; a sentinel was pacing 
back and forth at one side of the field ; he stopped 
instantly on hearing the warning sound. He stood 
with rifle ready, and listened ; nothing. He peered 
here and there and everywhere in the darkness that 
the flickering camp-fire only made more dense; 
nothing. The wind sighed and sobbed out from the 
trees, and trembled among the ribbons of the corn, 
and passed him, brushing his face and hair like a 
ghostly thing ; the mist hung lower through the tree- 
boughs, and fell around the corn like a veil. Noth- 
ing ! He resumed his march, ever and anon glanc- 
ing back at the field as he passed out of earshot, as 
though not convinced that all was right. 

The fugitives crouched down among the corn, lis- 
tening, listening, waiting, not daring to move lest at 
any moment a hand be laid upon them in the dark- 
ness. Then silence again, andthe man arose slowly 
on his hands and peered out toward the camp 
through the waving corn-ribbons. The sentinel was 
moving slowly away, the distant flash of the fire 
touching the steel of his rifle into a gleaming streak 
of light. Jim drew himself up to his knees, still with 
his face toward the camp, and once more took up 
the stealthy march on his hands and knees, fol- 
lowed by those behind, feeling carefully for the dry 
stalks, and putting them to one side ; silently, noise- 
lessly creeping down to the reeds and the river. 
Crunch, crunch; crackle, crackle, crus-s-sh! 

The sentinel was once more pacing along beside 
the field, and again he paused to listen. Dead si- 
lence, save for the stirring of the wind now and then. 
He moved a few steps nearer and stopped, his head 
bent forward, peering out ahead of him with an 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


77 


alertness that filled the crouching watchers with 
terror. 

Nearer yet ; his foot was almost upon them, al- 
most touched Jim’s silent figure. The wind sighed 
and sobbed and rustled the corn, dying away in the 
darkness. Nothing more. He turned aside, unmind- 
ful of the hearts throbbing in muffled agony of fear 
at his very feet. Listening, looking, he retraced his 
steps, conscious that something was wrong, dis- 
satisfied with himself that he was unable to dis- 
cover it. 

As he again passed out of earshot the crouching 
figures lifted themselves, controlling their trembling 
by a mighty effort, and crept on, and on, and on, so 
slowly, so stealthily, that they seemed part of the 
darkness. 

On the edge of the corn-field at last, almost down 
in the long river reeds that lifted themselves so high 
some distance back of the bank. Patience one mo- 
ment and all would be well. They held their breath 
for very terror ; they scarcely dared move lest some 
mishap would befall them. Two, three, four of them 
were out and down in the sweeping, swinging 
grasses that rustled softly, and waved under their 
feet, for they could stand erect now, but gave no 
sound. The boat was waiting down in the reeds, hid- 
den close in to the bank, and if only they could 
reach it in safety. 

A more startling, louder crash than the others, 
and Mississippi, who came last, fell to the ground, 
tripped by the long, tangled stalks of the corn at the 
edge. 

A breathless, death-like silence, a cowering of the 
dark forms in the swaying grass, a moment’s wait- 
ing that seemed like an eternity of years. The sen- 


78 


AT A GIBVS MERCY. 


tinel passed quietly out of earshot on his beat, and 
the danger was passed. 

“Linkum’’ was the password to the waiting boat, 
and one by one they stepped down from the bank 
and into the float, and pushed off from shore. The 
oars were muffled by their jackets, which were 
taken off for the purpose, and silently they glided 
down the river with the wind against the tide that 
was flowing slowly in. 

Now and then a sudden noise on the bank would 
bring the oars to rest, and they would listen tremb- 
ling and exhausted until the after silence proved 
the danger past. Midnight passed, the wee, small 
hours of the morning were rising over the world. 
Daylight was coming, and with it would come dan- 
ger, unless they could hasten and gain the Federal 
camp before it reached them. 

Sounds near and startling began to disturb the si- 
lence, and made the fugitives fear at every step they 
gained lest some one hidden in the thickets should 
discover them and they should be lost. The sharp 
crack of a rifle woke the low echoes ; the cry of 
some night bird answered the ringing report ; the 
ripple of the water against the boat sounded like the 
roar of cannon to the excited ears of the runaways. 

But they passed down the river on their way to 
Fortress Monroe, where they hoped to be helped on 
their way, for, like most of the slaves shut on the 
plantations, they knew absolutely nothing about the 
way to travel nor how to And the way. By and by 
the sounds on shore came closer ; they seemed to 
draw nearer the shore and drift with the wind and 
the tide that had turned, and was bearing them 
slowly on their way. A sentry was pacing up and 
down, they could almost touch him as he passed 


AT A GIRLS MERCY, 


79 


along the shore ; the rattle of a rifle as he set it 
down or shifted it from one shoulder to the other; 
the sharp challenge to some one passing into camp, 
or only the tramp, tramp, tramp of the man as he 
passed to and fro, now into the shadows of the 
thicket, now out in the red light of the Are. 

Every sound struck on the ears of the listeners 
with dread; what if their oars be heard or their 
boat seen as they glided past, silent, breathless, not 
daring to move, their eyes searching the darkness 
around them. Down, down the river, not one of 
them closing their eyes in sleep in spite of fatigue, 
for what was fatigue, or what was the loss of sleep 
compared to the chance they ran of being captured 
if they left the watch? 

Then up from the darkness that was slowly break- 
ing loomed a vessel above their heads. For an in- 
stant they thought it was running them down, and 
then the truth dawned upon them. It was a Con- 
federate gunboat anchored oif shore, and to be cap- 
tured by them would mean death, or worse. But how 
were they to pass without discovery? Against the 
gray line of the breaking day they could make out 
the moving figures of the watch on deck, and could 
hear the rattle of chains now and then, or a word of 
command. To row past them would be impossible, 
the sound of the oars, muffled though they were, 
would almost surely be detected ; they must trust to 
the wind and tide to drift them past. 

So they shipped their oars, and sat waiting with 
fearful hearts and faces drawn with terror. How 
slow they went. Sometimes it seemed as though 
they did not move, as though the great black gunner 
was standing guard over them, so that they could 
not go on ; but the tide drifted out and the wind 


80 


AT A GIRLS MERCY. 


blew down, and the boat drifted, drifted, drifted, 
rocking like a child’s plaything on the waves, now 
turned to the left, now swung to the right by a sud- 
den sweep of the tide, and then 

Crus-s-sh, grate-grate! 

They had struck a sand bar or a pebbly bank out 
in the water, and they dared not venture to push j 
the boat off, for the noise would attract attention, ^ 
and the gunboat was so near they could almost see 
the flashing of the sentinel’s arms. Could it be that 
they had escaped so far only to fall into the hands 
of the Confederacy after all? Could the God who had 
kept them so far have deserted them at this time of 
need? Was the end to be death after all? 

Jim leaned forward, and laid his hand over Lola’s 
as she sat quite steady and still, the other women 
around her in an ecstasy of terror. 

“Dere ain’ nothin’ we kin do, honey,” he said, his 
lips against her ear. “De end ob it es ter be de’th ; 
’tain’t no use a-tryin’. But I sw’ar,” his hand closed 
over hers till she winced with the pain, ‘T sw’ar yo’ 
doan’ fall inter dere ban’s. No, sah! We kin use 
dis ef de wuss do cum!” 

She felt the touch of cold steel against her throat 
and a long, half sobbing shiver ran through her. It 
was to be death after all, though she had hoped God 
heard her prayer. God, up in His high heaven, 
and she a fugitive slave ! Then the calm of utter 
despair again fell upon her, and she lifted her face 
bravely to his. 

“De good Lawd has kep’ us so far, Jim,” she said, 
“let us jes’ trus’ Him de res’ ob de way. We all lie 
right down in de bottom ob de boat an’ pray de 
Lawd ter help us de res’ ob de way. ’Tain’ no use 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


81 


o’ givin’ up w’en we’s so fur, an’ may git de res’ ob 
de way, ef we’s on’y hab faith.” 

Terror was so upon them that they obeyed her me- 
chanically, though few of thern could find words for 
prayer. But Lola prayed — how she did pray ! The 
struggle in the dark of the previous night for her 
own life was nothing to the wild pleading she sent 
up for them all. And lo ! a sudden gust of wind, a 
current of the tide swept in to the bar, and softly, 
gently, as though even the wind and tide were with 
them, the boat was lifted and drifted free, and 
drawn once more out into the current, gliding like a 
bit of the night on its bosom up to, and close under, 
and past the Confederate gunboat and down the 
river away — away ! 

For a while none of them stirred ; the joy on the 
heels of terror left them stunned and speechless ; 
then they arose and took up the oars. 

It was broad daylight when they once more found 
themselves facing a camp on the shore, with a gun- 
boat in the river, and knew that they were observed. 
There was a stir on deck and on shore, and a boat 
was sent out to capture them, but the broad light 
fell on the uniforms of blue, and they knew that 
they were saved. They raised a white handkerchief 
as a truce, for it was evident the soldiers thought 
them hostile from the manner of their approach, 
and welcomed the soldiers gladly. 

4c * * 

“My child,” said the general, when Lola had 
finished her story, “I shall advise you as I would if 
you were my daughter. You say you and the young 
man are to be married. Where and when?” 

“I doan’ know/’ replied the girl, softly, with bent 


82 


AT A Ginrs MERCY, 


head; ‘‘he sed w’en we git ter a place w’ere we kin 
fin’ a minister.’’ 

“Well,” was the kindly answer, for the general’s 
heart was warm, and this girl in her innocence 
touched him strangely, “you have already come so 
far with him in company with your friends, but as 
we must hold all excepting yourself and the man as 
contrabands, you will have to continue the rest of 
your journey alone; you and he are free, and can 
go, but if you were my daughter I would wish you 
safely married first ; you will find no better place 
than this, and the chaplain shall marry you to- 
night, and you shall start at once for the North in 
company with one of our men, who goes at mid- 
night. Will you be ready, child?” 

“But,” and the red streamed under the dark of 
her cheek, “I’se got nothin’ ter w’ar, gen’ral. I’se 
got nothin’ but dese clothes, an’ dey isn’t fit ter git 
marr’ed in. Et’s on’y a’ ole dress put on over de 
men clothes I had on, as de res’ ob us did. I cayn’t 
git marr’ed in dese.” 

“I know,” he said, and the kindly face was stirred 
with a smile. “I know how you feel, Lola; all girls 
feel so, I suppose, but it is the best you can do. The 
ceremony will be at eight. Be ready.” 

And she accepted his command gravely, lifting 
her head with a half proud gesture. 

“My mammy’d wish et, I’m sho’,” she said, 
frankly; “but Ise cayn’t b’ar ter git marr’ed in dese 
t’ings.” 

They were married that night at the fort, and the 
officers, with their .wives, and the privates, made 
a sort of gala time of it, it was such an original en- 
tertainment, and there was the wedding dinner and 
dancing at the end of it, ^.nd as the night grew late. 


AT A GlRrS MERCY, 


83 


and the scene must close, one of the soldiers, a young 
fellow with sunny curls over his head, and eyes blue 
as the heavens, and a smile that deepened in his 
eyes like a lake when the wind stirs it, passed his 
hat among the company with a few remarks about 
wedding gifts being late, and when he emptied the 
contents in the lap of the dark little bride, she found 
herself the possessor of over a hundred dollars, and 
they had started without a cent. And many a “God 
speed” followed them as they started out to find 
their new life together up North, where all are free. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

WAITING WITH FOLDED HANDS. 

Mrs. Courtland remained so long in that state of 
semi-insensibility, roused now and then into fits of 
delirium, that the doctors looked more and more se- 
rious over the case than they had at first appeared, 
but stating their fears to no one but the nurse. The 
blow had been so sudden and severe, at a time when 
her general health was too nervous from worry and 
anxiety regarding her boys, that the effect was more 
serious than it otherwise would have been. The 
squire guessed of their anxiety, and he was daily 
growing to expect the worst when he left the Hall 
for the city, the day passing on leaden wings, mo- 
mentarily expecting, he scarcely knew what, of bad 
news, thoup-h he also kept the fact from Nan, who, 
in her own brave way, was fighting her own bat- 
tles alone, that her father should not have added 
burdens on his daily more stooping shoulders, or 
more worry in his already too anxious state. She had 
grown into the habit of talking with him about the 


84 


AT A Qinrs MERCY, 


war, and the dangers threatening the city at any mo- 
ment, when there should be an uprising if the popu- 
lation resented too strongly their being drafted into 
the ranks against their will— the rough rabble that 
had no pride of country, being mostly but aliens 
therein, and who cared for nothing but the low life 
of inactivity, living from hand to mouth, glad of a 
meal if it could be had, sleeping off the pangs of 
hunger if it was unattainable, railing against fate 
that had given some so much more than others, in 
their blind fashion. She drew her father almost un- 
consciously to talk of these things, determined to 
help fight the home battles, be they ever so small, 
compared to the terrible struggles going on in the 
fields where the men were dying day by day for the 
good of their fellow creatures. It was almost an 
ignominious battle, she said to herself many a time, 
thinking over the simple little words of comfort she 
could utter to relieve the overwrought nerves of the 
man depending upon her for comfort, now that the 
dearest woman to him was lying unconscious of his 
thought of her, and his boys, and the sweet girl, his 
sole comforter, and the throes of agony going on in 
the heart of his country. It was nothing that she 
was doing compared with the grand work Helen’s 
white fingers were even now doing for the suffering 
soldiers brought to her care, suffering, dying, 
cheered by the grave face they must love for its 
purity and nobleness, bending, as Nan knew it 
would bend, above some other poor lad dying as 
that lad died, whose death she had never forgotten, 
described as it had been by Helen during their talks 
together, ere she left to join in the ranks of nurses 
so much needed, so hard to fill in spite of the will- 
ingness of the women to do their share for their 


AT A GIEVS MERCY, 


85 


country, as their men were doing. She envied Helen 
so many times when the days passed like crawling 
things, and there was nothing for her to do but 
watch the papers for any item of news regarding 
the boys — the boys, and one other of whom she 
thought, with quickened heart-beats, and warmer 
color in the tender face under its flulfy golden hair. 
He was brave, she knew, he could be nothing else 
than brave ; it was his heart and soul and honor, 
and he would fight in the very midst of the worst 
perils, cheering on his men by his own bravery. The 
men must be cheered, he had told her so rnany times, 
and she knew he was the man to cheer them, though 
his own life might be at its end. The mere thought 
of this swept the sweet color from her face, leaving 
only the pathetic effort at bravery that made it al- 
most impossible for one loving her to see. 

‘The devils are growing daily more desperate,^’ 
the squire said, one evening, in speaking of the rab- 
bles in the city. ‘There is a subdued murmur of 
threat and vengeance in the air that bodes no good 
to the city. But there are men on the watch for 
some such outbreak, and they will have the mob in 
their power almost before it is born, when the time 
comes. You need have na fear for me, little girl. 
Why should they harm me?’’ 

He laughed that she might laugh, as she so many 
times had done for him, but there was no answer- 
ing parting of her sweet, quivering mouth, as her 
eyes searched his face for any evidence of more 
harm than he had told her. 

She was beginning to understand how desperate 
the men were who were forced into the fight against 
their will, and what a set of men they were also, and 
how thoroughly capable of wreaking their ven- 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


geance upon no matter how many innocent heads 
in order to reach those they held responsible for 
their drafting. She knew there was much more than 
her father told her, for now she was watching the 
papers, not only for news of the armies, but for all 
the home news she could find, the daily rising ele- 
ment of hatred felt by the lower classes for the laws 
that sent them unwilling fighters into the ranks, 
and their efforts, so far unsuccessful, of attempts to 
break the rules by brute force, and free the men 
from the hard lines they were forced into. She 
knew how the city was watching for the final out- 
break that would have to come and be quelled be- 
fore order could in any sense be established again, 
and she knew of how the very heart of the city was 
ready for the worst, but with the defenses somewhat 
weakened by the drain of the war and the need of 
men elsewhere, the commanders outside never 
dreaming of what was threatening the home walls. 

• ‘‘Are you sure you are very careful, papa?’’ Nan 
asked presently, smoothing caressingly the hand 
over one of her hands on her father’s knee. The 
lamp-light was very soft over her uplifted face, and 
the curls tossed by her reckless fingers in her per- 
plexity. “You are sure you do your very best to 
keep posted on these threatened outbreaks? You are 
where you might not know of them until you were 
shut off and unable to help defend the city, or save 
your own life.” 

“You’re not to worry about me. Nan,” her father 
said, quietly, but with an authority she had seldom 
heard during the last few years. 

The earnestness only deepened in her face as she 
said, quite as gravely as he had spoken : 

“How can I help worrying, papa? Here you are 


AT A OIRL\S MERCY. 


87 


off every day in the midst of dangers as great, if not 
so apparent, as any of the army, with mamma so 
ill, up stairs, away from us, and the dear boys out 
fighting for us. But, oh,’’ she added, brightly, with 
a swift change of manner, seeing the shadow fall- 
ing upon her father’s face, “I am so proud of my 
dear old papa and my big brave brothers. It is 
good to be a man and go to battle, instead of just a 
woman shut in at home, unable even to do the least 
thing to help on the struggle that means life or death 
to us as well as you men. It is so good even to be as 
Helen is ” 

She paused and smoothed still more softly the 
hand upon her own. She had not intended to let her 
heart’s desire run away with her tongue in this 
manner, for she had kept any word of her inner 
wish to be in the worst of the fighting, if only as 
nurse, from her father’s ears, and now here she had 
almost told him what she so longed to do. 

“But, after all, there’s nothing so sweet as to be 
at home with those one loves, is there, papa?” 

Her brave smile did not blind him in the slightest 
degree. His own face darkened, and he only let 
his hand lie loosely in her clasp, as his eyes looked 
past her out into the fields where women were doing 
their best, as well as the men, for the victory of the 
country and of right. He had long known this se- 
cret wish of his daughter to go with her friend into 
the hospitals, or in the field, to nurse the wounded 
and dying of those who had fought the good fight 
for their country and their God, but he had kept the 
knowledge to himself, for he dared not let her go 
when the sweet woman up in the quiet room 
might pass from them at any moment, and he could 
not have her daughter from the house when she 


88 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


might be needed — must be needed at such a time. 
If her mother recovered — and it was almost a con- 
secration— he would not only cease to hinder, but 
would help his daughter to carry out this desire of 
her heart and go to the care of her brother-men, or 
the assistance of her sister-women, under the shield 
of her friends’ care, for he had the most perfect 
confidence in Helen’s ability not only to care for 
herself and her wounded soldiers, but to keep out of 
harm’s way at all times. Helen was older than Han, 
and knew more of the world and its ways, and he 
could willingly — almost — let Nan go. Almost, for 
Nan was his greatest help and comfort, with her 
cheery face and brave voice giving him the words 
of encouragement he so needed in this trying time. 
Dear little Nan, with her golden hair a-fiutter, and 
the color coming and going in the tender, girlish 
face. 

Involuntarily he stooped suddenly and took the 
girl’s face between his hands, lifting it that he 
might the better search it for tenderness and its 
most hidden desires. 

‘‘My little daughter has to take the place of 
mother and brothers now to the old man,” he said, 
rather huskily, letting the sweet face go, and lean- 
ing tiredly back in the chair. “It’s a trying world 
anyway, Nan.” 

“But, after all, it’s a pretty world, papa,” Nan 
said, with her old clear laugh, that rang tenderly 
upon his weary heart. “It’s a pretty, nice, good 
old world. Papa Courtland, if we only know well 
enough how to appreciate it. And it’ll not be long 
that your Nan ’ll have to take all those places for 
you, for mother will be with us very soon now, I am 
so sure, and the dear, noisy, big boys will be here to 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


89 


make the old Hall the same rackety place it used to 
be. I have perfect faith in my belief, papa dearest. 
So you are to cheer up and let no ugly care sit like 
the black dog on your shoulder — your dear big, 
broad shoulders.’’ 

She jumped up, and going behind him, placed her 
two white arms about his neck, leaning over to peer 
inquisitively into his grave face, her own quite 
merry and happy, though her heart was aching — 
ah, who could ever know how her heart was aching 
for him and her own self. She longed so at that mo- 
ment for some one to comfort her as she was trying 
to comfort her father — some one, she did not say 
whom, but she knew — she and her heart knew full 
well. 

‘Ht’s so good to have you, anyway, papa,” she 
said, her face suddenly turned into shadow that 
the tears in her eyes should not be seen. “It’s so 
good to have you, and I am, oh, so sure we will have 
mother and the boys with us again soon ; the war 
must be nearly over.” But in her heart she knew 
the war was not nearly over, and that the hardest 
of the struggle was still to come. 

“And still there’s no trace of the thieves,” Nan 
said presently, to give a different current to their 
thought, for she herself could not much longer have 
borne up under this strain upon her heart. She 
came around once more and sat down at the squire’s 
feet, resting her arms upon his knees, as was her 
favorite attitude during these sadly sweet moments 
of theirs. “It seems almost useless to ask after 
them, there being so little hope of ever capturing 
them.” 

“Very little hope of ever getting within their 
reach,” her father said, gravely. “They took good 


90 


AT A OIRrS MERCY. 


care to shield themselves before they attempted 
such an outrage/’ 

“But that leader looked capable of doing almost 
anything,” Nan said, laughing nervously at remem- 
brance of the flashing black eyes behind the mask. 
“I wouldn’t care to meet him again, papa.” 

“It isn’t likely you will ever meet him again,” her 
father said. “Such men as he are careful not to 
place themselves in the way of any one who might 
recognize them. It is more such men as that whom 
we have to fear than the double ranks of the foe on 
the fleld.” 

“But, after all,” Nan said, her thoughts taking a 
different turn, “I would trust almost any of those 
Confederate soldiers, or generals, or captains, any 
day sooner than I would trust Howard Blake, and 
I’m not afraid to say it.” 

“Hush, Nan!” the squire said, almost sharply. 
“Be careful how you speak of that man. He has me 
in his power, so far as that money goes. If he chose, 
he can come down upon me for the amount at any 
time, and I must pay it. I have no stand against 
him, and he would carry it out to the bitter end if 
we should thwart his wishes ” 

Nan interrupted him, her face hardening strangely. 

“What do you mean, papa? How are we to 
thwart any wish of his? Has he made any villain- 
ous plans that we are in danger of running against? 
What, pray, have we to fear from such a man as 
he? Too cowardly to enter the army when his coun- 
try needs every man it can have, too selfish to ac- 
cept, as any gentleman would, the loss that was his 
own, and not yours, too ungentlemanly to be hon- 
est and upright in his life or ‘his words — I hate the 


AT A GIBL'S MERCY. 


91 


man, papa, and I would do almost anything to prove 
it to him.’^ 

She looked capable of it. Her face was flushed, 
and her eyes flashing with the same spirit with 
which she met the daring burglar in her room that 
night that brought the shadow of death so close 
upon their home life. Her hands were clenched as 
though she would like to try her woman's strength 
against the strength of the world. 

Her father smiled involuntarily. He was as 
proud of this daughter of his as though he had no 
sons. She had a good deal of his spirit, too— old, 
brave, war-like spirit — and he admired her for it. 
She had plenty of womanly sweetness to counter- 
balance it, and could well afford, such a flashing 
spirit. She was a Courtland to the core, but with 
her mother’s gentleness and tenderness that made 
her so lovable. 

‘H haven’t a doubt you’d like to prove it to him 
this minute, Nan, little girl,” he said. “He isn’t the 
man we would desire for a friend, or to be under 
such obligation as we are ” 

“We’re under no obligation,” protested Miss Nan, 
flashing her big blue eyes upon her father with re- 
newed warlike tendencies. “We’re under not a 
speck of obligation to Howard Blake, papa. I’d 
die rather than be, anyway, and I know we are not. 
As to that money, it wasn’t your fault that he lost 
it — I’m sure you lost nearly as much more as he — 
and I’ll not have you feeling so. You’re as high 
above him as it is possible for a man to be.” 

“I told you you could not comprehend how we 
men feel in such a matter, my dear Nan.” 

The squire was growing restless. He would not 
for the world tell his daughter of the proposal the 


92 


AT A OIRL'S 3IERGY. 


same man had made him for her hand as a motive 
for dropping the matter of the money, a'refusal from 
her being followed by the immediate claim for the 
full amount. He could not face her and even think 
of it. He moved wearily in the chair, and turned 
his head that the shadows should lie darkly around 
him. 

But Nan was as quick to guess he was troubled 
as though he had told her his innermost thoughts. 
She stooped suddenly, and taking his head in her 
hands, turned his face so that the full gas-light fell 
upon it. Then she searched every feature steadily 
for a moment in utter silence. 

‘Tapa,” she said, solemnly, then, her flashing 
eyes upon his, though her lips were trying to soften 
her anger by smiling, ‘‘papa, I would have noth- 
ing to do with Howard Blake more than merely to 
acknowledge his presence — no, not even for you, 
were that necessary. I do honestly hate him more 
than I can tell, or than you can even guess, know- 
ing him as well as you do. I hate him so thoroughly 
that I would see him die at my feet without lifting 
my hand to save him, were that possible. I hate 
him so that I feel as though a snake were in my 
presence when he is near. I know he is not a good 
man, or an honorable man, not even a man at all, 
as we judge of men. He may have money — I do 
not doubt that, he is too contemptibly mean not to 
have money— but if he were rolling in gold I would 
still put as much distance between us as is possible. 
There, Papa Courtland,’’ she laughed, but it was a 
quivering laugh, “now you know how much I hate 
and detest your Mr. Blake.’’ 

She did not say that she knew full well that he de- 
sired her hand in payment for the money, as he re- 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


93 


cognized fully his utter inability to lay claim to it 
on any other grounds, but she knew it as thoroughly 
as though her father had put it in just so many 
words, and her father knew she did. 

“He should never have my brave, patriotic little 
woman,” he said, laughing softly, as he took her 
two cold hands in his, and drew her down upon his 
knee. “He is not worthy to enter the room with you, 
and never should he lay claim to closer friendship 
than you give to the merest passing acquaintance.” 

And Nan knew he would keep to his word. 


CHAPTER IX. 

HOW HE WORKED HIS PLANS. 

Nan knew that her father would keep to his word 
in regard to Mr. Blake, but she had such a thorough 
horror and distrust of the man that she would have 
feared him, were she capable of fear. As it was, she 
kept constantly on the watch for some underhand 
work upon his part to draw the financial net more 
and more tightly about her father, and in such a 
carefully devised manner as to be quite unseen or 
undreamed of by him. She knew he would never 
give over any plan of his without fighting for it, 
too cowardly though he was to enter the army and 
fight where fighting was needed. It would be no 
open warfare. He was not brave enough to openly 
face a man or woman and state his determination to 
fight to the death rather than lose his victory. He 
would follow so closely upon her father’s footsteps 
that he could do nothing of which he was not 
aware. That the present state of the city demanded 
care for self preservation he knew, and would 


94 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


doubtless see that her father did not too well learn 
the facts of the case. That he was working for the 
good of the country under the government, she 
hoped Howard Blake did not know, but she feared 
that of even that he was in possession. He would 
hold it, too, over her father’s head to use when the 
time should come. She hoped no one knew her fa- 
ther was endangering his life in this way for the 
government, for it would be almost as effective as a 
death blow to let the rabble in the city know he was 
a spy upon their movements to prepare the city for 
its struggle when the outbreak should come. She 
knew that her brothers and friends were laying 
their lives down, it might be, for their country, but 
to have her father lay his down at the hand of some 
one of the brutal roughs of the rabble, should they 
guess his intention toward them— she could not 
bear to think. Her father, so tall and grand looking, 
who would long ere that have made his way to the 
rank of general had he been permitted to join the 
army — how could she think of such a thing? But 
Howard Blake was capable of using any means in 
his power to gain his end, and should all other 
plans fall through, or fail in their fulfilling, she had 
not a doubt he would use this power over her father’s 
life to win her consent. She had not an atom of 
faith in him, and she was therefore perhaps better 
prepared to fight him than her father was. She was 
on her guard. He would have to work with the 
skill of a general, indeed, if he would blind her 
watchfulness. 

But Howard Blake knew this as well as Nan. 
He was perfectly aware of her distrust of him ; of 
her positive dislike— he called it by no other name 
— to him. But she would lose this feeling after a 


AT A OIBVS MERCY, 


96 


while, he felt sure. She was like all other women, to 
be won by hard wooing and patient waiting to over- 
come her first repulse. He could win her through 
gold, he was sure, as a last resort. No woman could 
refuse the good that went with gold. No price was 
too high in his eyes for winning the girl he had de- 
cided should be his. That she was not indifferent 
to the young captain, who had not long resumed 
his place in the war, he knew full well. That Cap- 
tain Travers would win her if he could, he also 
knew. But in his eyes Nan Courtland was already 
his. In his heart she would be his, did he but wait 
long enough to work his plans with sufficient care. 
He had more than one wire to pull in accomplishing 
his end, and he would undoubtedly win. If the 
worst came to the worst he could threaten her fa- 
ther. Well, he hoped honestly that that would not 
be necessary. He would use no harsh measures if 
it were possible to do without. He wished his wife 
to love him, and he knew her well enough to know 
how she could hate if she chose. 

He was on his way down to the Hall to inquire as 
to Mrs. Courtland’s condition, as was his habit. He 
did not go by the road, as he did usually, but walked 
down through the fields where the clover was heavy 
waiting for the scythe. He looked about him with 
pride as he walked, for there was not another es- 
tate in the country in such fine condition as his, 
since the war had robbed the farms of their workers 
and the homes of their leaders. He was thinking 
over all these plans of his as he walked, and looking 
over his ruddy grain and waiting hay, out to where 
the sleek cattle roamed ; he chuckled to himself, 
thinking what a frail defense Nan Courtland could 
make against him should she try. He pushed his 


96 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


white straw hat back on his head, leaving the broad 
light to bring into view every feature and charac- 
teristic of his face. It was not a true face, but in its 
way it was handsome. There was an evil light in 
the wavering black eyes and a sinister curve around 
the thin lips that denoted a brutal nature. But the 
skin was purely olive, and brought into better effect 
the eyes and black curling hair and mustache. He 
was tall and graceful, too, in appearance, as he 
walked down through the clover, his hands deep in 
his pockets, buried in these thoughts. He knew 
there was many a girl who would say yes to him 
gladly should he care to lay his fortune at her feet. 
But it was only Han Courtland he desired, and it 
was Nan Courtland who would not have ready the 
yes he should demand. 

She was down in the summer-house among her 
flowers, and he knew full well she would be there 
when he took the path through the fields. She was 
always in the garden in the morning. He paused 
at the edge of the rose hedge, where the tiny wicket 
shut off the peering clover, and watched her, un- 
noticed, for a few minutes. 

She was the picture of dainty womanliness as she 
sat on the doorstep of the house, the morning paper 
at her feet— read, and no trace of the dread notice 
she had feared, as she feared every day in taking 
up the sheet— the warm colors of the summer 
flowers setting off to full perfection the loose gown 
she wore of pale blue dotted with white daisies. A 
ribbon of the blue was about her round throat, and 
the ends fluttered among the curls that were tangled 
by the morning breeze all over her graceful head. 
There was a half smile on the perfect lips, and a 
happy light in the downcast eyes, shaded by their 


AT A QIRVS MERCY. 


97 


Silken lashes, as she arranged slowly and carefully 
the bouquet in her hands. 

Standing so, watching her, the man at the wicket 
almost hated her for this sweetness and grace which 
he could not win as he would win any other woman. 
He must work as though for some sacred thing to 
win her from her home and her soldier lover. She 
would scorn him, asking her as she sat in the tender 
light of the morning under the shade of the fragrant 
summer-house. There would be no smiling, blush- 
ing hesitation as she could give if she wished. He 
knew too well the scornful curve of the red lips so 
warm with life when she talked with him. He re- 
membered the flash of the eyes that could be so ten- 
der if they would. He hated her as he stood there 
and ground his teeth together with a muttered curse, 
as he vowed in his heart to win her by any means 
under the sun — by fair means, if they would win, by 
foul means, should these fail. 

As though she felt the evil influence of his pres- 
ence, her tender face darkened and she looked up, 
scarcely knowing what she expected, but conscious 
of some evil in her path, something not for her good 
around her. 

This also he noted, and there was an answering 
flash of the hate she felt for him as he met her 
angry eyes. He bowed and opened the gate as 
though he had but just come up, his thin lips part- 
ing in the smile that sent the girl’s blood running 
icily. He came up to her as though he knew he 
would be welcome. Women liked men to be master- 
ful, he said inwardly. 

“My fair neighbor is busy,” h^ said. His voice 
was low and almost tender, in its tone, but there 
was no familiarity in it. She should not have en- 


98 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


dared that. ‘'This is fitting work for you, Miss Nan. 
Flowers are your fit companions.’’ 

“Oh,” she laughed, wickedly. She had not a trace 
of fear of the man this morning, the world was so 
sweet to her. If she had chosen she could have 
shown him a note scribbled on a scrap of paper in 
her pocket that changed the whole day for her. 
‘Tf flowers are my fit companions, Mr. Blake, to 
what class are you to be consigned? Sunflowers?” 

She was laughing easily. There was no harshness 
in her face or voice. He thought what a sweet 
woman she would be could she but be as friendly 
toward him as now she was. There was almost a re- 
gret in his heart that he could not always inspire 
her with such kindly feelings in his behalf. He 
knew full well that she seldom held such pleasant 
words for him. 

He held his hat in his hand and fanned himself 
with it as he stood leaning against the doorway of 
the summer-house, towering above her in his 
strength and energy. She looked up in her merry 
fashion — nothing could put her out of temper that 
morning — and shook her sunny head, her lips parted, 
just showing the pearly teeth, the dimples breaking 
the smoothness of the warm pink cheeks. 

‘T wonder that you walked over this morning, Mr. 
Blake,” she said. “It is such a grand morning for 
a canter. If I had your big chestnut, I’d never have 
the ambition to walk a single step.” 

He leaned carelessly against the door-post. His 
black curls were lifted and swayed by the breeze he 
raised with the motion of his hat. A more pleasant 
light came into his eyes as they looked down at the 
dainty little lady at his feet, her hands filled with 
the warmly colored flowers. 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


99 


“At any time when you care for a ride/’ he said, 
quietly, as though it were scarcely a favor he was 
doing, “you are at perfect liberty to use any horse in 
the stables, I am sure. Miss Nan. You have no idea 
how breezy it is on the upland slope where the 
clovers are thickest. You are fond of beauty, and 
you could appreciate that. If you would paint it 
some time you would feel amply repaid for any 
trouble it might be. The clovers simply carry the 
feeling of breezes in their rosy tops. 1 am no artist, 
but I like beauty of that sort.” 

“Then you do not appreciate my poor garden 
flowers,” she said, sweetly. She lifted her frank, 
blue eyes to his face without a trace of ill feeling. 
She was a trifle off her guard, and had forgotten 
such disagreeable things as any man being willing 
to commit an act of villainy for her sake. “I care 
more for my pink roses and carnations and Canter- 
bury bells than I could for the world sown with 
pink clovers. But they are pretty, Mr. Blake, and 
some time I may catch your clover slope for a panel. 
I thank you for the suggestion, and also for your 
generous offer of the use of your stables. My poor 
pretty Queen had to be shot, you remember, because 
she broke her leg last winter, and I cannot bear to 
put another horse in her place, she was such a noble 
animal.” 

“She was a fine creature,” he said, never hinting 
that he knew perfectly well that her horse was not 
replaced by any other because the squire was under 
heavy money drain, and she would not press her de- 
sire. That she could be generous if she chose, he 
had plenty of proof. “But if you really care for a 
trial, the bay mare is the easiest rider. I will have 
her sent over any time you may desire. How perfect 


100 


AT A OIRVS MERCY. 


those bells retain their color, Miss Nan. They are as 
blue as the heavens, and match the pink of the 
roses. I trust your mother is improving. 

He had said this in different ways every morning 
of her mother’s illness, but never had she heard it 
with such kindly feeling toward him, and never had 
she answered him with the gentleness of this morn- 
ing. She leaned her sunny, curly head against the 
door-post, and there came a mist into the far away 
looking eyes as she said, low and softly : 

‘'Mamma is nearly the same, Mr. Blake. I do so 
miss her about the house. Will she never recover?” 

He made no advances of friendliness. He was 
learning wisdom in this wooing of his neighbor’s 
daughter. If she had known it, she had more cause 
to fear him that morning than ever before. He had 
mapped out his manner of action, and would follow 
it to -the end, and the end 

There was a deeper tone of sympathy in his 
voice as he answered her, but that was all. He did 
not even allow his eyes to rest on her face — the 
quivering girlish face raised so earnestly to him. 

“You must not lose faith, Miss Nan. Your mother 
will recover. It was a terrible blow, but she has 
enough vitality to withstand even that, I am sure. 
She is too kind a hostess to get on without. Cour- 
tesy is such a sweet thing in a woman !” 

She felt rebuked somehow, and her old antag- 
onism was coming back. He had been so unlike him- 
self that she had nearly forgotten their unpleasant 
relations toward each other. He saw the tenderness 
dying from her face, and straightened himself. He 
would give her no chance for unpleasant words. He 
would leave a kindly feeling this mce, at least. 

“At least I am glad she is no worse, Miss Nan. 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


101 


I must go on now, as I have to see about the mow- 
ing. You may be thankful you are not a man to 
manage a farm.’’ 

She shrugged her round shoulders and lifted her 
arched brows. 

“If I were a man,” she said, and he knew from 
her changed tone that he would have a bitter reply, ] 

“I would not stay for any upland mowing, Mr. 
Blake. If I were a man I would be in the thickest 
of the fight, doing my best to hasten the end of this 
terrible war.” 

He laughed easily. She should not know that she 
had moved him in the slightest degree. They were 
always at drawn swords, those two. 

“No doubt you would follow your own road. Miss 
Nan!” he said, and, lifting his hat, was gone before 
she could offer further reply. 

“I wish he had stayed just long enough for me to 
have answered that,” she said, angrily, looking re- 
sentfully after him, all the gentleness gone from her 
face, idly crushing with one tiny boot the slender 
string of Canterbury bells that had fallen at her 
feet. 

While striding back through the sweet upland 
clover Howard Blake ground his teeth in sullen 
wrath. 

“If fair means fail ” he said. 


, CHAPTER X. 

A FEW CHANGES. 

Nan was leaning eagerly over the piazza railing, 
watching for her father. There was a flush on her 
cheeks and a new light in her eyes. She even 
hummed softly a snatch of song as she stood there 


102 


AT A GIRLS MERCY. 


holding to the railing with both white hands, one of 
the hounds at her feet, watching her with intelli- 
gent eyes. She was a new jN^an in her present state 
of feeling, and even the animal recognized this. 

The sun was going down over the hills toward the 
west ; in the east the pale rose was turning to the 
amber that heralds moonrise. It was rather later 
than usual for her father, but her heart was wonder- 
fully light, and she did not have a trace of fear that 
any harm had befallen him. She was impatient for 
his coming, for she had good news for him, but she 
was too much occupied with this one thought to even 
stop to think deeper of his delay. 

“I am so glad, so glad mamma is better,’’ she said 
finally to the dog, stooping to pat his lifted head. 
‘T simply cannot wait for papa to come home that I 
may tell him the good news, Carlo. It does seem 
just too good to be true.” 

She sat down on the wide old steps beside the dog, 
lifting his head to her lap that she might more easily 
smooth his shining coat. She pulled his long ears 
with affectionate tormenting, and laughed when he 
moved uneasily at a harder pull than before. 

‘T must torment you, poor old Carlo,” she said, 
“if I can have no one else to talk to. You’re a dear, 
patient fellow, and I’ll prove it.” 

She laughed again gayly, and pulled with renewed 
vigor the silken ears. She could not be quiet with 
her suppressed happiness. It was so good to once 
more see her mother, to hear her voice even so 
faintly, to know that she recognized her daughter, 
to know that she had smiled upon her with a trace 
of her old time sweetness. Again she broke into the 
gay little snatch of song, her voice sounding strange 
after its long silence. 


AT A Omrs MERCY. 


103 


“I just simply cannot wait for papa to come that I 
may tell him!” she said, happily. She slapped the 
ear nearest her with an affectionate stroke. ‘‘You 
blessed old Carlo, I’m going to keep on telling you 
until he does come.” 

There was no keeping down her light heart. Her 
eyes were brilliant with pleasure. She tossed her 
head, and the yellow curls went aflutter over her 
graceful shoulders. 

Still there was no sound of wheels along the road 
turning in at the wide gate. Strain her eyes as she 
would for the first glimpse of the carriage rolling 
slowly along behind the lazy horses, she caught no 
such sight. The dust lay undisturbed along the 
level road. There was no scattering of the noisy 
sparrows in the trees at the entrance, roused by the 
rumbling wheels. They chirped and chattered, and 
screamed their shrill “cheat, cheat, cheat” to their 
hearts’ content ; nothing came to hush their cries or 
send them from their cool nesting. 

By and by the lightness died from the eager face 
bending above the dog. A small pucker of thought 
appeared on the smooth brow. An anxious look 
came into the wide, frank eyes watching the gate- 
way for the first stir of the birds that would herald 
the approach of any carriage. 

“It’s strange,” she said presently, to the quiet 
dog. “It’s awully strange papa doesn’t come. It 
can’t be that what we have dreaded for so long has 
come just now when I have such good news for him 
of mamma’s condition. It can’t be that the dreaded 
riot ” 

She could not bring herself to utter the thought 
that must bring such terror to any one knowing what 
animals the men were who would rouse the city 


104 


AT A Qinns MEIIGY, 


with their uprising. She and her father had gone 
over the ground so many times, she knew what must 
of necessity follow such an outbreak. She was per- 
fectly aware of the danger her father was in from 
day to day, but every day he returned home with- 
out the dread thing having happened, and she had 
almost grown to lose her fear. Now it was upon 
her in all its terror. She could not sit silently there 
on the steps, with only the dog for company, with 
that thought in her mind. She must be up and 
doing, she must go, she must not be idle. How could 
she sit there doing absolutely nothing when her fa- 
ther might be in the midst of such peril as even 
Frank and Charlie and Ned would not have to face, 
for this rabble would be composed of brutes that 
would sneak up to one and give the stab in the dark, 
while the others were men, and would fight as sol- 
diers should. How she wished for her brothers and 
her friends at that time. Perhaps she had never 
wished more for them. She arose and descended the 
steps, the dog following her without her call. He 
seemed to know something was wrong. He watched 
her with his large eyes as a friend might. Uncon- 
sciously she paused and stroked his head. She must 
have sympathy in the sore trial that might be upon 
her. She wondered vaguely what had made her 
heart so light if there was such sorrow upon her. 
She wondered if God was as good as she thought as 
she sat there on the steps, singing her foolish song. 
What had she to do with love or the hope of love 
when these terrible things were abroad in the land? 
What had she to do with the happiness that came to 
other girls? It seemed to her that her life was 
sadder than the lives of others. 

The tender red mouth drooped with the depth of 


AT A OmrS MERCY, 


105 


her ^Ifespair ; the tender eyes grew v/istful with the 
longing to know, and the dread of knowing, what 
lay before her in the gathering darkness of the night. 
Here, with the silence and the peace of the country 
around her, could it be that in the city not many 
miles away was the rabble and the riot? Was death 
doing his work under this quiet heaven? Was there 
only sorrow for her, and the sparrows so happy in 
the shadows of the elms? They did not mind her ap- 
proach, for they were used to the light step and the 
dainty figure waiting at the gate for the return of 
the carriage. Maybe they chirped more cheerily 
and changed their calling to “cheer’’ instead of the 
“cheat” she had always heard them utter. She did 
not know. She was growing so listless and stunned 
that she could not quite tell what she did hear and 
see. There was a half uttered prayer in her heart, 
but it was so broken and disconnected that she could 
not even place it as she should. She seemed to have 
lost all power of thought. Only the dog remained at 
her side as she passed down the drive. He seemed 
to know that there was trouble for them. 

At the gate she paused and sat down on the great 
rock under the elm at the edge of the gateway. It 
was cool there and quiet, and she could not hear the 
muffled sounds of the house. She wanted to be away 
from all sounds for the present. Only the birds 
seemed to soothe her, and the knowledge of the 
dog’s faithfulness seemed to touch her. She smiled 
mechanically, and laid her hand upon his head. He 
understood and licked it with canine affection. 

How long she sat there with the dog’s head on her 
lap, she would never know. Twilight deepened into 
the pallor of moonrise ; the crickets cheeped in the 
tall grasses at the roadside; the birds in the 


106 


AT A OIRrS MERCY. 


branches above her were settled for the night, utter- 
ing no sound save now and then an uneasy twitter 
as they moved in their sleep. Then the moon broke 
the darkness and rose splendidly above the eastern 
hills, sending a flood of light along the road to the 
feet of the girl in the shadow. 

One of Mr. Blake’s men passed and gave her 
good-evening. She replied to him, and smiled a wan 
little smile that only made her face more sad in the 
half light. There was an apathy about her that the 
man did not understand. She was usually, even 
when her mother was at the worst, a cheery woman, 
and therefore a favorite with every one. 

By and by Mr. Blake himself came up from the 
meadow lot, and paused in wonder. He had been 
told of her presence there, but she would never 
know that. If she was down at the gate, she was 
consequently waiting for her father, for he knew all 
these habits of hers, and therefore her father could 
not have arrived. There must be some good reason 
for his delay, for he had never kept his daughter 
waiting since this sickness of her mother. And if 
the thing had happened that he, too, was waiting 
for in spite of his apparent unconcern in all matters 
relating to the war, then the net was closing around 
his victim, and he would gain a firmer hold. He had 
been waiting for this longer than the girl would 
have believed. 

“You have chosen a lonely place to watch the 
moon rise, Miss Nan,” he said, lightly, crossing to 
her side, and pausing in spite of a low growl from 
the dog. “Isn’t it rather damp for you? It isn’t the 
sort of place I should expect to And you in.” 

His words roused her spirit. She would not allow 
him to know of what she feared. He would perhaps 


AT A OIRVS MERCY. 


107 


glory in her father’s danger. He would not help her 
in any case, and she could not bear for him to be 
with her now. 

“I didn’t know that you were so aware of my 
habits that you should judge of where you should 
find me,” she said, crisply, the darkness hiding the 
pallor of her face. “And as for the moonrise, 
surely a quiet place where one will not be disturbed is 
the only one to thoroughly do it justice, Mr. Blake.” 

She would allow him no mercy, and he bit his 
lip angrily. She could not see the flash in his eyes 
as he gazed down upon her on her lonely seat under 
the tall old tree, her hand lying lightly upon the 
sleek head of the dog. Then he made one of his bold 
moves. He laughed pleasantly, and said, as he 
struck a pebble with his foot : 

“I thought you might be uneasy about your fa- 
ther, Miss Nan. We all know of the threatened 
danger to the city should the rabble wake and strike 
its blow in the back, which it will undoubtedly do. 
I have had the thought in my mind for some time, 
but I am sorry to know you also are disturbed by 
the knowledge.” 

“One could not fail to be troubled by the knowl- 
edge of villainy like that,” Nan said, quietly. 
“ Where the blow must come from a coward who is 
too dishonorable to openly face one. I hate coward- 
ice. I have a perfect scorn for the rabble that must 
make up a riot of that sort.” 

“But if you are at all anxious in regard to your fa- 
ther,” he said, “Miss Nan, I will gladly do anything 
I can for you. Would it be of any use for me to 
telegraph for you to learn if there is any other cause 
of his delay? I will gladly do anything that I can, 
as I said. You are so unwilling to let me help you.” 


108 


AT A OIRVS MERCY. 


She relented somewhat. She lifted up to his her 
wan little face with the trace of tears around the 
silken lashes. 

“You are very good, Mr. Blake,” she said, “but I 
think father will come very soon. It could .scarcely 
affect him should there be an outbreak. His office 
is so far down town, you know.” 

“It might cause him some inconvenience in get- 
ting home,” he said; “that is all. Miss Nan. But if 
by sending word, I could at all ease your anxiety, I 
will most gladly do so.” 

“You are kind,” she repeated; “but I think there 
is really no need, Mr. Blake. I am sure he will come 
soon, or send word himself why he is detained. I am 
more anxious for him to come,” she added, her voice 
softening somewhat, “because I wished so much to 
give him the good news of mother’s improvement. 
She was conscious for some ‘time to-day, and the 
nurse gives us all encouragement of her speedy re- 
covery. It is so good to know. ” 

“I am indeed glad of that,” he said, and his voice 
sounded sincere. He held out his hand, and the girl 
laid one of her small white hands within it. “But if 
there is nothing I can do for you I must leave you. 
Miss Nan. I am more glad that I can say of your 
mother’s improvement.” 

He was glad. Now there was no reason why he 
should not bring some of his plans into effect. The 
knowledge of her mother’s condition had kept him 
from putting them into operation, as it might seri- 
ously disadvantage him to push any harsh measures 
with death so near their doors. And he had fully 
made up his mind if fair means proved unavailing 
then he would use those that would prove more 
effective. 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


109 


But Nan, sitting in the shadow of the elms, did 
not know of what he was thinking as he walked on 
in the pale moonlight, and felt her heart warm 
toward him more than it had at any other time in 
her life. It was so good to have sympathy. Her 
father had failed her, but here was a would-be 
lover at hand to do her lightest bidding gladly. 

There was the rumble of wheels and the muffled 
sound of hoofs along the dusty road, and Nan sprang 
up breathless to watch for its coming. It was their 
carriage, she knew, for Carlo, recognizing the sound, 
arose with her, and set his tail wagging as only the 
home carriage would admit. As it turned in at the 
gate the girl called, and the driver drew in the 
horses with quick willingness. 

There was no head at the window, and Nan knew 
if her father had been there he would have ended 
her suspense at once, and the disappointment in her 
face melted the heart of the coachman. Removing 
the reins from one hand to the other, he unbuttoned 
his coat, and drew from an inner pocket one of 
those terrifying yellow envelopes, and handed it 
down to her with a gruff but kindly word to the 
effect that he hoped there was no ill news in it, 
while the girl tore it open with trembling hands. 

‘T waited fer ther eight o’clock train, Miss Nan,” 
the man said. “An’ thin ther letter kern, an’ I driv 
right home ter let ye know.” 

She nodded. 

“You can drive on, Jim,” she said. “I will walk 

up.’’ - . 1 . 

“No bad news, I hope. Miss Nan?’ touching his 

hat respectfully as he drew the reins together over 
the backs of the horses and they started up the 
drive. 


no 


AT A Ginvs MEBGY. 


“Oh,’’ the girl’s voice was almost cheerful, ‘‘no 
bad news at all, Jim, thank you. Father will not be 
able to come up to-night, that is all.” 

But in her heart she knew it was not quite all. 

“Do not worry. Nan,” 4he message ran; “1 will 
be up all right to-morrow if all goes well, as there is 
no doubt it will. At present there is considerable 
disturbance here, and I do not like to leave, as there 
might be need of my presence. You are not to 
worry.” 

Not to worry. It was all put in a quiet manner 
that she need not worry, but she knew better than 
he guessed of the need there was to worry. This 
“disturbance” of which he wrote so mildly she knew 
meant much more than that — meant, no doubt, the 
very riot they had been dreading. Of course her fa- 
ther would not come up to the quiet of the country, 
and leave the city in such peril. She knew her fa- 
ther too well for that, and was proud of knowing it. 
Besides, did not the government trust him to aid it, 
and would he disappoint it because there happened 
to be peril in the way? She folded the message, 
and then tore it into fragments, placing them in her 
pocket. Not an atom of this would there be left to 
tell any tale to observing eyes. 


CHAPTER XL 

A DAY AND A NIGHT. 

Nan walked up the drive with a firm step ana a 
face that gave no hint of the tumult within. Dinner 
had been waiting for the master’s arrival, and now 
she ordered it brought in, and sat there alone at the 
long table as though she were not alone and lonely 


AT A GIRLS MERCY. 


Ill 


Avith a heart that ached with presentiment and 
dread. She ate, too, because she would have no one 
guess of her thoughts, and gave her orders mechani- 
cally but with a semblance of interest, smiling now 
and then at the willing waiter, who almost guessed 
her desire before it could be expressed. And she sat 
out the usual length of time, her mind occupied with 
its own thoughts, and her soul fairly sick with the 
dread that she could not silence, try as she might. 
The city was full of riot, she knew. The rabble 
would be swarming the streets, or had swarmed the 
streets, until life was a thing scarcely worth the 
thought. They would make a mad dash for liberty, 
and vent their vengeance upon all whom they could 
reach. That there could be order, and consequently 
more danger, she was sure could not be. There was 
never order on the part of rioters, and therein lay 
their weakness. They had no leaders, and simply 
crowded like wild beasts broken loose, doing all the 
damage they could, destroying life and property re- 
gardless of the consequences, and then were driven 
back to their dens, more sullen, more fierce than 
before, but having learned that their strength was 
their weakness, and the few of those with order at 
their heads could master them, as intelligence ever 
must master ignorance. 

But in spite of the victory that she was sure must 
come. Nan’s heart was sick with the knowledge that 
there must be bloodshed and a fierce struggle ere the 
victory came. She had been too clearly informed of 
these things from her father in their quiet talks not 
to comprehend the outcoming of this. And she 
knew that her father, under the government, would 
hold his life of little value if need called for its 
sacrifice. She was proud gf her father and his 


112 


AT A' GIBUS MERCY. 


grand old spirit, but her heart was aching dullj 
with dread in spite of its brave championship. 

She arose from the table with quiet grace and the 
fears crowded down in her heart, and went up, as 
was her custom— although not alone— to her mother’s 
door. The nurse knew of her habit, and now came 
out with kindly interest. She smiled with reassuring 
brightness as she laid her hand on Nan’s arm. 

“Your mother is sleeping as sweetly as a baby,” 
she said, softly. “You may rest easy to-night, Miss 
Courtland, for I think by to-morrow she will be as 
nearly herself as she could be in her weak state. 
But she will recover her strength when once she is 
started on the right road. I am so very glad for you. 
I knew you would wish to know, and would sleep so 
much better yourself for being assured of this.” 

Nan smiled the little slow, pathetic smile that had 
somehow settled upon her lips within the last hour. 
She met the kindly eyes of the nurse with her brave 
blue eyes, as she thanked her gently for this thought- 
fulness. Then she turned away and passed down 
the staircase again, into the quiet study, where the 
lights were lowered, and the shadows had the cor- 
ners to themselves and their fantastic imaging. She 
did not turn up the lights. The shadows were better 
suited to her present state of depression. She sat 
down in her father’s chair, sinking among the cush- 
ions like a child, her golden head warmly pressed 
upon the crimson plush that. had so many times shel- 
tered her father’s aching head. She curled among 
the cushions like a child, an arm close clasping the 
cushions upon which her head lay, her other, with 
the loose sleeve falling back, revealing the perfect 
roundness of its outline, lyinp* loosely along the arm 
of the chair. She closed her big wistful eyes, and 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


113 


gave herself up bitterly to the thoughts that would 
come, that had crowded in upon her during the tire- 
some meal, during every minute of the last couple of 
hours of this dreadful evening. She had no one to 
whom to go, and she longed more for sympathy 
then than she could ever do. Howard Blake would 
triumph over her trouble, and perhaps make it an 
end to gain his victory, that she knew, even when 
she wished the least to think of it, he was bending 
his whole nature to do. She would as soon ask the 
sympathy of a viper as of him. She hated him. She 
hated him with even more bitterness because he 
knew of her sore heart as she sat out at the gate 
that night waiting for her father. She knew that 
he had read her heart. He had offered her kindness, 
but she knew instinctively that it was the kindness 
of one ready to spring. If only she could go to her 
mother. If only she could have the ready motherly 
sympathy that had never before failed her. And yet 
she could not have her mother know of what danger 
her father was in. Were she in her old state of 
health, she would keep from her the terrors of the 
night. If she must bear it she would bear it alone. 
That was the only thing she could do. 

And where was her father all this time? He was 
at his post of duty, as his daughter was so assured 
he would be were it necessary. With the basement 
of a friend’s up-town residence as the rendezvous, he 
and others bent on the same good work of quelling 
the riot, and yet keeping posted as to its main points 
in order to send for more effective aid were that to 
be, spent the night in sleepless watchfulness, now 
out, now in, comparing notes, keeping the heart 
brave in the midst of the horrors that were on every 
hand, though everything was apparently quiet after 


114 


AT A GIRLS MERCY. 


the terrible day. The outbreak came suddenly, as 
they were aware it must come. There were mutter- 
ings of the storm, threatening looks, sullen silence 
preceding the tumult that came like an avalanche. 
The mobs were dense. When they made their 
rush, the streets seemed black with their swarm, 
ing. They used the only weapons with which 
they were familiar — clubs and stones, and bricks 
— anything they could lay their hands upon, hurling 
them at random upon the men who attempted to 
overpower them. The militia were out promptly, 
and worked with the order they must use among a 
set of such wild beasts. They were armed with 
more effective weapons than the rabble could com- 
mand. But they did not use the rifles until all else 
was useless. Broadway was blockaded with timber 
and anything the hands could lay hold upon. And 
behind this blockade the shower of stones, and bricks, 
and clubs were hurled with a terrible effect, that 
must have been worse had there been any leader 
among them. 

Every one joined in the defense. Business men 
left their stores, every one joined the ranks that 
could lift a hand. These were mustered together and 
given a commander, and were prepared to do their 
best should life be the penalty. The city was com- 
paratively defenseless, for the greater force of the 
militia had been called away for defense elsewhere, 
and the human brutes knew of this. But they 
reckoned without their host when they were sure of 
an easy victory over those that were left. Not a man 
among them but fought for life and death, and heart 
and home, with the honor of their country at stake, 
and the honor of their city in jeopardy. And when 
the day was spent and darkness upon the city, a sul- 


AT A GIUL'S MEROY, 


115 


len silence brooded over everything, that foretold 
the storm was not quite spent. Many a fire flag flut- 
tered up from different parts, showing that the fiend, 
though quiet, was not quelled. And in the midst of 
these horrors, when many a time it seemed as 
though the brute element must conquer, JSTan’s fa- 
ther was among the fiercest of the city’s defenders. 
He struggled with the youngest and most daring. 
He forgot all else save the mad desire to overpower 
this heathenish onslaught. His blood was up, as it 
had threatened many a time when he knew of the 
boiling fury among the lower class, and he would 
fight it as he would so many hounds gone mad. He 
knew that Nan must be anxious about him, but 
rested in the hope that she had heard nothing cer- 
tain about the struggle that was going on. He sent 
the message as soon as he could safely get where he 
could do so. He knew that even a hard certainty 
was preferable to the terrible suspense she would 
endure should he send no word. But the immediate 
need of action left little time to such thoughts, and 
the day was too full of things more terrible to 
admit of his giving more than a passing thought to 
the quiet life at the old Hall, where his wife lay so 
low, and his daughter waited to know the worst. 
More than once he barely escaped with his life, so 
eager was he to rush into the midst of the more ter- 
rible part of the struggle, held back only by the dis- 
cipline that was all that could conquer this brute 
fury, that had no head and no heart, and was of the 
most part in such a state of intoxication as to be 
hardly more than beasts. 

“I’d shoot any one of them, or all of them, as I 
would so many wild beasts,” he declared, excitedly, 
to one of the officers who was beside him, as they 


116 


AT A GIRrS MERCY. 


were waiting for orders to enter in the fight. ^^They 
are hardly better than such, and have no human 
feeling. Why should they be treated with any con- 
sideration whatever? For what are we waiting, any- 
way?” 

“They are brutes,” the officer acknowledged, his 
own blood rushing madly to enter active service, 
“but we must treat them as though they are men in- 
asmuch as they have to be ruled by strategy as well 
as the maddest onslaught of the army. We can 
subdue these rioters, but it is going to take time 
enough to make them see that we know how to 
maneuver as well as they. It is not brute force 
alone that will win!” 

The noise was deafening. The crowds yelled and 
swore, and filled the air with their foul breaths reek- 
ing with the fumes of the drinking that had given 
the failing courage to make this dash for liberty. It 
was as though pandemonium were let loose along 
the streets of the city, born of the country’s throes. 
It was a scene that beggared description. No pen 
could touch the depth of its horror, nor brush catch 
the lurid lights of this human mass surging against 
the city’s law. 

And poor little Nan, with her golden curls tossed 
upon her arm, and her tender face clearly defined 
against the warm hue of the cushions, fell asleep in 
the silent old library like a tired child, a half smile 
on her parted lips, as though her dreaming were 
sweeter than her waking. For all her anxious pic- 
turing of what was going on in the city came no 
nearer the truth than could have come to one un- 
aware of the lowest depths of some of that city ’s life. 
And there the butler found her when he went to 
close the house for the night, and stood beside her a 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


117 


moment ere he waked her, his wrinkled old face al- 
most tender as he looked down upon the pure, sweet 
face with its warm red mouth and flushed cheeks 
against which the silken lashes lay like tints of gold. 
She was so like a child among the huge cushions of 
the chair. It seemed as though the trouble of the 
world could never touch her. As though life and 
love and all good things should come at her feet. As 
though sorrow were a thing too harsh for this tender 
face and smiling mouth. But who can read the heart 
history from the face? 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE CORDS OF THE NET. 

The carriage came dashing up the drive as though 
to announce to the waiting girl on the steps that her 
heart could be at rest, and then the door was opened 
with a Arm hand, and Nan's father was with her, 
holding the girl close in his arms, listening to her 
eager words of delight at having him back safe and 
sound, and the incoherent words mixed in regard- 
ing the improvement of her mother. She scarcely 
knew what words she was using, her heart was so 
full of gladness and thankfulness, and the relaxation 
of her anxiety gave her words scarce the necessary 
sense* But the squire knew that he was at home 
again after the desperate flghting, and that the 
gentle woman whose life had been held by such 
slender cords to earth, was taking a firmer hold upon 
life and left him nothing to wish for save the end of 
the terrible war and the return of his boys to the 
old Hall. 


118 


AT A Ginrs MEBCY. 


“You shall go up at once to mamma/’ Nan said, 
her hands trembling as she helped him remove his 
duster in the hall. “Of course you shall go at once 
to mamma, papa dearest, only you must come back 
to me as soon as ever you can, and tell me all about 
the trouble down there. I know something about it, 
indeed I do, from the accounts we received this 
morning, and I am so thankful to have you safe at 
home, you blessed Papa Courtland.” 

She clasped her hands around his arm in an eager, 
caressing fashion, and then sent him up stairs with 
the memory of the bright face watching him from 
the hall beneath, its eyes ashine, its cheeks dimpled 
with the smiling that could not keep from trembling 
around the mouth. Nan ordered the dinner brought 
in with a lighter heart than she did the night pre- 
vious, and sang again a snatch of the song she 
hummed then, while waiting with the dog on the 
piazza steps for her father’s return. 

“It’s a funny old world,” she said to herself, “but 
it’s a good world after all, in spite of it being one 
minute right side down, and the next as light as it 
ever was. It’s so good to have papa here, and 
mamma getting well. I could almost say there is 
nothing I am afraid of now. If the boys were only 
here and the war over!” 

But it was not until the dinner had been eaten, and 
they were once more alone in the study. Nan at her 
father’s feet, that the history of the terrible time of 
riot was gone over to the listening girl. There were 
too many private matters connected with the telling 
that could not be related before the servants, and 
Nan was the only one, now his wife was too ill to 
hear such things, to whom the squire told these se- 
crets of his life during the war. For he knew Nan 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


119 


was a faithful listener, and would keep what she 
heard to herself. 

“And you were in the midst of all those horrors!” 
cried Nan, as he spoke — lightly it might be, but even 
then proving the terrors of the time— of the haps and 
mishaps to himself, and the bravery that met and 
crushed the turbulent spirit. “If I had known it was 
so dreadful, papa, I never could have slept as I did. 
Of course I knew it must be pretty bad to keep you 
down there, but I never dreamed it was like that.” 

She shuddered and touched caressingly the hand 
she held under hers on his knee. She searched his 
face with anxious eyes to find if there were traces of 
any harm to him in this fight, and the tender mouth 
quivered as she thought of the possible ending to 
the day. 

He patted the curly head reassuringly, and smiled 
into the uplifted eyes. He could smile now. The 
danger was over, both to the woman in the room 
overhead and to himself out of the city. The wrinkle 
of anxiety born of his love for the wife, whom ho 
felt hourly he might be called upon to lose, was 
smoothing itself out, and his face, rugged and seamed 
as it was with the life he did not find easy, watching 
the course of the war, and knowing his own inabil- 
ity to join therein, still had a light of renewed hap- 
piness upon it that did the girl’s heart good to see. 
She laughed at him, and leaned her soft cheek 
against the hand she held. 

“It’s so good to have you, papa,” she said. “Mr. 
Blake wished to telegraph to your office and learn 
of the real state of the case, but I would not let 
him. I did not wish to be under even the slightest 
obligation to him. He has been very nice— for him 
—I must say, but I don’t want him to do anything 


120 


AT A omns MERCY. 


for me. I just couldn't stand having him do any- 
thing for me." 

^‘He was here, then, yesterday, Nan?" There was 
a wrinkle on the squire’s brow that his daughter did 
not understand. His voice was even and slow, but 
the eyes under their heavy gray brows were flash- 
ing with some hidden thought that worked angrily 
upon him. “Did he tell you of what was happening 
in the city, Nan?" 

“No, papa." His daughter could disguise her feel- 
ings as well as he. She was a diplomat in her way, 
and she could draw one’s soul from one almost with- 
out being discovered in the act. She might have 
made a good Inquisitor, for she could smile and let 
her eyes look kindly at one while she was hiding her 
hearts She smiled now as she met her father’s 
searching gaze. She even shook her head gayly at 
him, lifting her sweet face full in the light of the 
lamps. “He seemed to know as little about what 
was going on as I, though he said he had been fear- 
ing some such thing, and offered merely to find out 
for me if I so desired. It’s quite needless to state 
that I did not desire." 

“Most certainly not," said the squire, concisely. 

The frown deepened on his brow. There was no 
answering smile on his rugged face for this daugh- 
ter who could almost always call up a smile on her 
father’s face. 

She brushed her soft hand lightly to and fro over 
the rough hand she held upon his knee. She shook 
her golden head with a little bit of defiance, for she 
knew she could not long defend the man she so de- 
tested, and if her father continued to keep that air 
of anger toward him, she could simply say no more, 
and let his anger vent itself upon the man. For 


AT A GIRrS MERCY. 


121 


that he was angry with Mr. Blake for something she 
had not a doubt. She would not ask, but she would 
learn in her own way. Her father would tell her. 
He told her so many things that were of more im- 
portance than anything relating to Mr. Blake could 
possibly be. 

“You poor old papa,’’ she said lightly, with a ten- 
der little laugh, “why should you be angry with the 
horrid man when we have so much else to talk about? 
He was very nice to me. Why, he even offered me 
any horse in his stable to ride if I wish. Isn’t that 
a piece of generosity on his part? And he was 
really very nice. Come, tell me more about the 
dreadful time you had yesterday, and forget Mr. 
Blake. I had so much rather hear.” But even as 
she said this she knew he would not talk to her about 
the riot, or any other thing while he was so roused. 
And she knew, too, that before long he would have 
told her all his trouble. 

He sat for some time in silence, the frown not 
leaving his brow, his lips shut close under the gray 
mustache, his eyes looking beyond his daughter, 
clouded in intensity of thought. Presently he roused 
himself as though to break the spell of unpleasant 
thought, and met the wide, questioning eyes of the 
girl at his feet, and smiled involuntarily. She 
patted his hand approvingly, and knew he would 
not long keep her in the dark respecting this 
thought. 

“It seems to me as though the devil himself had 
hold of the reins of war,” he burst out presently, a 
flash in his eyes. “It is the devil’s own work that 
keeps it going, anyway. Beg your pardon. Nan, for 
my strong language, but I cannot contain myself 
when I think of what we need to end the war and 


122 


AT A GIIWS MERCY. 


our utter inability to help give it. Here is this Blake, 
with more money actually than any man could need 
or desire, with not even enough patriotism to offer 
money when he will not go himself — to buy the men 
to go in his place. And he has crippled me to a cer- 
tain extent with the money he feels belongs to him, 
and that I know every day I would like to return if 
it must be returned, but that I know he can do with- 
out, even if I do have to be under that obligation to 
such a craven spirited man, when our country needs 
every cent I can spare, and far more, to gain the 
victory we must gain, but that is hindered because 
of the lack of money in the treasury. Nan, when I 
think of the poor fellows suffering hunger and pri- 
vation, with not even enough to keep them in cloth- 
ing, and dying day after day on the field for the 
honor of their country, I believe I have almost an 
insane desire to murder a man like this Blake. And 
to think he has the audacity ” 

He stopped suddenly. He glanced hurriedly 
down at the gentle face at his knee, to know if she 
understood the pause in his rapid words. He would 
not have her know the man they both despised so 
thoroughly could pretend to lay claim to her proud, 
pure hand. She would treat him well for her fa- 
ther’s sake. He would treat him as any gentleman 
should treat another. He could do no less ; he would 
do no more. 

Nan shook her head, and laughed bitterly. 

“Let’s not think any more about it, papa,” she 
said, soothingly. 

Nevertheless, she was thinking about it the next 
morning as she walked down to the summer-house 
under the rose vines, where the birds were calling, 
and the air was heavy with the garden scents. She 


AT A GIBrS MERCY. 


123 


was thinking of just that as she seated herself upon 
the sill of the tiny house and spread the flowers she 
had gathered in her lap to choose one by one for her 
bouquet. Her smooth, soft brows were puckered in 
an exaggerated frown as she laid the morning's 
paper on the floor beside her and proceeded to rest 
before beginning upon the flowers. It was unusually 
warm, with scarce a lifting of the leaves under the 
faint breeze from the southern slope. She removed 
her broad white hat, letting it slip down her shoul- 
ders to the floor. She ran her slim Angers through 
her hair to lift it and cool her head. She sighed 
deeply as though to be rid of the oppressive ozone 
and leave space for new. And leaning her fair head 
against the dcor-post, she let her hands lie among the 
loose flowers and her thoughts wander at will with 
her eyes bent on the hazy slope out yonder toward 
the south. She was somehow growing braver to 
open the damp sheet as it was brought in to her at 
breakfast, and had so far seen nothing to terrify her 
excepting the natural sadness one would feel at the 
account of such battles as were being fought. This 
morning she had left the paper to be read in the 
cooler summer-house, though she had glanced down 
the long columns to catch any name that might 
mean sorrow to her, but she had seen nothing, and 
was singing to herself a low air as she leaned — her 
thoughts not dh her song — under the shadow of the 
roses, with the carnations and blue bells lying in her 
lap for her pleasure. She was feeling rather tired, 
too, for the excitement and worry df the past day 
and night had told upon her sunny temper, and she 
simply longed to rest there in the garden that the 
boys had always loved, and where her friend had 
Didden her farewell with a tender thought of her fu- 


124 


AT A GIRVS MERCY. 


ture life, should he never come back to her. She had 
not thought^of that, she had not trouoled about his 
never coming to her, he was so strong and so neces- 
sary to the world, it seemed to her. If he should 
never come back to her — she could not think of that. 
She roused herself, and would not think of it. She 
began setting the flowers one against another to try 
the effect of each, but it was an aimless trial. She 
knew she would in the end place them as she hap- 
pened to lift them, and take them in to her mother, 
as she had done every day since her illness — since 
Ned went away. And thinking of him and the 
struggle going on, her thoughts went back to the 
man whom her father had so railed against the nre- 
vious evening: when they sat in the old library talk- 
ing their evening talks. 

The feeling of dread was upon her again, and 
she could not shake it off, though she tried even to 
lift her voice to more gayety in her song. She had 
no heart for singing, that was evident, whether be- 
cause it was so stiflingly warm in the garden, or be- 
cause she really had no wish for singing. She gave 
up the attempt and dropped the flowers, letting her 
chin rest in her two hands, as she rested her elbows 
on her knees and thought, thought, thought, till it 
seemed to her she could think no more, that her 
mind and brain would go mad if she did not give up 
this dreadful thinking. 

It seemed to her impossible that she could hate 
Howard Blake more than she did the day before, but 
at the present moment it seemed to her she had 
never hated him, that the feeling of distrust and 
dislike she had felt for him were mild forms com- 
pared with the feeling she possessed for him at that 
moment. She would not lift her hand— no, not if, 


AT A GIRVS MERCY. 


125 


as she said, he were dying at her feet. But she was 
powerless to do anything. She must simply sit 
down like so many other women, and wait for the 
war to end, and all things to come around somehow. 
She could not even have Helen’s feeling that she 
was doing something for the poor laddies giving 
their lives for her and her country. She had heard 
from ISTed not many days ago— when was it? Could 
it be but three days since? It seemed like years to 
her now, thinking of it. But the few words she had 
received were written many days before, and 
reached her only after wanderings of which she 
could never know. She took out the scrap of paper, 
torn from a pocket diary, and read the few words of 
cheer scribbled upon it in pencil in a moment of 
leisure. 

There were footsteps on the gravel of the walk, 
and Nan looked up, her hand closing over the bit of 
paper lying upon the flowers in her lap. 

‘Tt seems to me that the sunshines simply for 
you not to disappoint the flowers. Miss Nan,” said 
Mr. Blake. 

“It is kind of you to think so,” said Nan, icily. 

She was sorry he had come. It was so hard for 
her anyway that morning, and she did not want 
him to be there to face her. She was unhappy, and 
it was only in her happiest moments he should have 
ventured near her. 

“Not at all!” and the man laughed, without a 
trace of the knowledge that she was out of temper. 
“But you do seem to be so heart and soul with the 
flowers that I can And no other cause for our sunny 
weather.” Then his face settled into its usual in- 
scrutible lines as he added, his voice softening with 
an attempt at kindliness: ‘T came over to tell you 


126 


AT A Ginns MERCY. 


how sorry I am for the news. I knew he was a 
friend of yours, and he was really a fine fellow. It 
is not much of an account, but tells the saddest part 
of all.’’ 

He was watching her closely, and saw the color 
fade and return in swift tides to her face. He 
was watching to note to the least degree the power 
of this news spoken of. She had not seen it, he 
knew, ere he spoke of it, for she would not have 
been sitting there so quietly. He knew full well she 
was more than a friend to the man. 

She lifted her eyes with a great terror dawning in 
them, the color leaving lips and cheeks, the trem- 
ble of the sweet mouth almost more than even he 
could bear. Her hand crushed unheeded the bit of 
paper in her lap. Then she arose and confronted 
him, the flowers — and the paper with them — falling 
unheeded to the ground. 

‘‘Of what news do you speak, Mr. Blake?” 

There was a strained sound to her voice that she 
did not recognize. She heard herself speaking as 
though she were miles away. Somehow she felt 
dead. She was listening to some other girl— some 
other, whose heart was failing because there was 
news for her. 

Involuntarily he reached out and touched her 
hand, but she did not seem to notice it. He could al- 
most have had it in his heart to wish the words un- 
spoken. 

“Have you not seen it? I thought you knew. Poor 
little Nan!” he said. Still she stood there like a 
stone, her face immovable, as though it were in truth 
the image of a woman, and not the tender girl who 
had so sweetly and unselfishly comforted her father 
through the trying time they had passed together. 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


127 


‘'I thought you knew, or 1 would not have come ’’ 

She interrupted him in her stony fashion. 

“Tell me first what you mean,” she said. 

Her eyes were searching his face, and his eyes 
fell. How could he face the terror in her own? 

He stooped in answer, and taking up the paper 
opened to a notice on one of the inner sheets, where 
the “valiant death of brave young Captain Tra- 
vers” was given in a few glowing words. He was 
dead, then. Nan could not see how the girl hearing 
of this could stand so quietly as she, with no sort of 
feeling. She could not comprehend how she stood 
there without a trace of feeling, listening to the man 
whom she hated with such intensity as he uttered 
his words of regret for the loss of her friend. Of her 
friend? And was it not more than friend? Did not 
his words at their parting prove to her the deeper 
meaning he would give them when he came back 
from the war? When he came back from the war! 
Why, he would never come back from the war. He 
could never come back. She roused herself as she 
realized, or began to realize, to whom this message 
was sent. It was she. Nan Courtland, her very own 
self on whom this blow was falling. It was no 
other girl. She had no need to pity any one but her- 
self. And here she was standing quite calmly lis- 
tening to the words of sympathy Howard Blake was 
uttering. She would not let him see how this news 
affected her. She roused and turned as though she 
would enter the house, and in so doing felt the 
touch of his hand on hers. This gave her the strength 
she needed, and she drew herself up to her full 
height, then only reaching to his shoulder, and held 
out her hand for the paper. 

“It is very sad,” she said, in her ordinary voice. 


128 


AT A QIEL'S MERCY. 


“I did not see it as I glanced over the columns this 
morning. But it is very sad. How it will grieve his 
mother.’’ 

She met his eyes with an unfathomable look in her 
own, and held the paper in her hands, that did not 
tremble in the least. 

‘‘He was a pleasant friend, and we will all miss 
him, now that he will never come back.” 

She caught her breath here a trifle, but resumed 
as calmly as before : 

“We all somehow have the idea that those we 
wish for will come back to us when the war is over, 
but I don’t know why we should, when there are 
daily so many falling. I wonder if his sister was 
near him at the last?” 

The man before her was amazed at her power of 
self command under circumstances so trying. He 
felt a renewed determination to win her by any 
means in his power. He would not lose in this 
game. He loved her flercely at that moment. 
Nearly always she roused only wrath and the desire 
for revenge by winning her in spite of herself, and 
then proving to her that he was not one to safely 
scorn. But his face was as inscrutible as was hers, 
and the sun was shining and the birds singing 
softly in the boughs overhead. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THAT WOUND A HEART. 

Nan even laughed before Howard Blake left her. 
She answered him as crisply as was her wont, and 
held the paper steadily, as though she were glad the 
news were no worse. Yet Over and over in her 


AT A QinnS MEUCY. 


129 


mind she was asking if there could anything worse 
have come to her. 

The sun was shining, but what did she care? 
There was even a breeze stealing up from the south, 
where the clovers dotted the fields with pink. How 
could the world go on as though there had no terri- 
ble thing fallen upon her under the sunny sky? How 
could she go on living her life? How could she be 
the comforter of her father any more when she had 
no heart for comforting any one? Must she go on 
living her life as though in truth there had nothing 
happened? Would this man never know that she 
did not want to talk to him? Did he not know that 
Captain Travers was more than merely a friend to 
her? Had he lived so near them all his life not to 
know that his death must be more than a trifling 
thing to her? Had he no heart that he could think 
of the sunshine and the flowers when her life seemed 
at an end? How cruel the world was to keep on its 
even course of sunshine and blossom and song when 
for lives like hers all sunshine and blossom and song 
had died. 

She hated the flowers. With sudden fury she 
moved so that her tiny slippers crushed the flowers 
at her feet. She would never again spend the pleas- 
ant hour in the old garden gathering and arranging 
flowers that were no longer friends reminding her of 
other friends. No, never, never, would she gather 
flowers there. And why would this man stand talk- 
ing to her of them and speaking now and then in 
the midst of the rest, kindly words for the man for 
whom she could wait forever and he would not 
come. 

‘T think a canter would do you good, you are 
looking really pale this morning,'' Mr. Blake said 


130 


AT A QlUrS MERCY. 


presently. ‘‘You know you are at liberty to take one 
at any time, Miss Nan/’ 

“Your horses would break my neck,” Nan said. 
She laughed bitterly, and pushed the flowers with 
one foot over and over in the dirt. She seemed to 
have utterly forgotten the note that had fallen with 
them to the ground. “You are very kind, Mr. Blake, 
but I think I will live a little longer.” 

He should not know her heart was dead. He 
should never know life was dead for her in all the 
years that might come. 

He left her by and by. That the news had 
wounded her more than any word or action of hers 
should show, he knew full well. That she would 
never allow herself to show any sign of feeling in 
his presence, had he not had sufficient proof? But he 
would win her. He had set his heart on doing that^ 
and he would move heaven and earth to accomplish 
it. It was not merely revenge for her scorning him 
that now gave him stronger determination, but the 
knowledge that he loved her for herself — for her ten- 
der face and gentle womanliness and dainty ways. 
Even the crushing of the flowers under her feet 
had a grace that could belong to no one but herself. 
He loved her, and he would win her. There was 
more than one way, if one should fail. He strode 
down the clover field with a Arm step, and held his 
head as proudly as though he had already fought 
and won. 

And poor little Nan sat down again when he had 
left her, and buried her face in her two hands, 
though not a tear did she shed. She had turned to 
stone, she said to herself over and over. No one 
with a warm heart could bear that news and still 
have only the feeling that she was dead, that there 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


131 


was nothing in life, that the song of even the birds 
sounded harsh to her, and she could not cry. The 
birds were singing, and she wished she might stop 
them. They kept saying over and over so many 
strange things. There was the sunshine and the 
wind coming up from the south from over the clover, 
and she could feel it touch her face as though it were 
sorry for her. She did not like to be pitied, but she 
had no power to help it. What would her father say 
when he came home at night? Would he pity her, 
too, and say ‘‘poor little girl,’’ as she would not 
want him to. Perhaps there was something in the 
paper that would help to soften her feeling. She 
opened the sheet, and found the place where How- 
ard Blake had pointed out the notice. She read it 
and re-read it. They spoke in high terms of his 
bravery and loyal spirit. They could not do less. 
He was brave and loyal to friends as well as to his 
country, and why should they not say it of him 
when he was dead? When he was dead ! She could 
not quite understand. This dreadful feeling of stoni- 
ness seemed to harden all her powers of thought. 
But he must be dead— Ned, her old playfellow, her 
old defender, her champion at all times, her more 
than friend now— Ned was dead. It seemed so 
strange to think of it. She could see that he was 
dead. There it was in black and white. He had 
died in a grand charge at a moment when hesitation 
would have meant defeat, and had carried the day 
with great honor, but had fallen at the last. No 
doubt Helen was with him. She could not only 
suffer, but she could go on doing something for those 
who suffered and died on the field. If she were 
Helen she would be brave, too. Why, surely she 
could do almost anything and stand any strain upon 


132 


AT A OlBrS MERCY. 


her powers of endurance if this news affected her 
so little. She must do something. There was surely 
a place for her, and Helen could manage it. Helen 
knew what to do, and would gladly have her go. 
Helen was brave, and would help her to he brave, 
and she needed all the bravery sh^ could have to 
live her life from which all the sunshine and the 
blossom and the song had gone. She had so wished 
to go with Helen. Now the time was coming when 
she must go. 

She arose, and looked down at the crushed flowers 
under her feet. A slow smile crept sadly around 
her white lips. She felt a sort of pity for them, they 
were so pretty lying with the dirt upon them in the 
path. She must let no one guess of this strange 
thing that had come over her heart. She would 
keep the paper, and maybe after she had read it 
times enough it might take away that feeling. She 
could not live for years and years, as she would 
doubtless have to live, with the icy feeling around 
her heart. 

She raised her dainty gown from the dust of the 
gravel, and took up her scissors again, going down 
the walk among the flowers. 

“What if my flowers are dead,” she said, “I will 
still gather them for mother. After all, these are 
prettier flowers than those I crushed.” 

The color was coming back to her face and her 
lips. She would keep the pallor in her heart. That 
was cold enough, and no one would know. There 
was a wound in her heart — there must be a wound 
in her heart — that had let out all the warm blood 
that made life so brilliant and so sweet. But this 
wound should heal, though it leave a scar, and no 
one would guess of its being there. 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


133 


There was a searching look in her father’s eyes 
as he stooped to kiss her that evening on the piazza, 
where she met him as usual, dressed in a dainty 
white gown, with blue ribbons at throat and waist, 
but there was no tell-tale pallor in the sweet lifted 
face, and the blue eyes were as bravely steady as 
ever. 

“It is sad about Ned,” Nan said, of her own free 
will, when they were again in their old room. There 
was not even a break in her voice, only a graver 
tone. “He was always so good-natured and brave, 
we will miss him terribly, won’t we, papa? And I 
cannot help wondering how Helen bears it. If it 
were one of my brothers ” 

“But if it were for your country. Nan?” There was 
a touch of reproach in her father’s voice. “I would 
give both my sons, if it is the will of the Lord to take 
them, though they are such brave fellows, and I 
hope there will be no need of either not returning to 
us. But, oh, my dear little girl, you cannot know 
the terrible suffering the war lays upon our land. If 
anything will end it, I would too gladly give it. 
Captain Travers died as bravely as he had lived, 
carrying at the last an almost reckless charge 
against the enemy, and though he fell— poor, brave 
fellow— we can but be glad that he did his work 
well. I have tried to find out all I could about him, 
but in the paper office they said the note was sent 
in with others, and they knew no more. At Wash- 
ington, where I telegraphed, they stated that this 
name had been sent in with the list of killed, and 
they had learned of the exceptional bravery of the 
young officer, and would undoubtedly have given 
him higher rank, had he lived, for his daring and 


134 


AT A GIRLS MERCY, 


successful charge. That is all I know, Nan. Perhaps 
Helen will tell you more when she writes.^’ 

“But Helen has so little time to write, and I hear 
so seldom, Nan said. “I am afraid we will hear 
nothing more than this until the terrible war is over. 
I wish I could do something to help it on, papa.’’ 

Again he searched her face as though to read her 
innermost thought. Then he stroked the sunny 
head at his knee. But he made no answer, and Nan 
continued, softly, almost fearing the reply she would 
receive : 

“Papa, you said if you had twenty sons you 
would give them all, if necessary, to the country. 
Are you willing to let your naughty little girl go, 
too, to do as Helen is doing, even if less than she is 
doing, for I am not one bit brave, papa. But I want 
to do what little I can.” 

He leaned down and lifted the girl’s face between 
his hands, studying it for a moment in silence. His 
face worked strangely, though after a minute it was 
set in stern strength. Then he touched her forehead 
with his lips, and said, rather huskily : 

“As my sons are doing what they can, could I re- 
fuse to let my daughter do the same? Nan, the old 
Hall will not be the same place with our sunshine 
gone from it, but I made a pledge with myself long 
ago that if your mother was given back to me, and 
you wished to go, I would not refuse your wish. The 
country needs every one, dear, and the more brave 
little women like you there are to help it along the 
sooner the victory will be ours — for it must be ours. 
We will win, I am sure. Nan, and my little daughter 
will have helped on the winning, as well as my two 
sons.” 

“It is good of you to say that, papa,” Nan said, 


AT A GiarS MERCY. 


135 


but there came a sudden mist before her eyes, and 
she could not meet the kindly eyes above her. 

She leaned her head against the friendly knee, 
and they were silent for a few minutes. The hand of 
the squire was gentle if it was rough, and it was 
with unutterable tenderness he stroked the curly 
head that might not for many a day rest against his 
knee, as now it was doing, and his eyes, too, were 
rather dim, the girl not knowing, her own eyes hid- 
den. Then he said, gently: 

“When do you wish to go. Nan? I must prepare 
your mother, you know, dear, and you must give 
her time to become accustomed to the thought of 
not having our little girl around the house at our 
call, and to keep the sunshine going.’’ 

“I will not go until you say I may, papa,” Nan 
said, softly. “You are good to let me go, anyway, 
papa dearest, and I will wait your own pleasure 
about going. Only,” there was a wistfulness about 
the tender voice that made the man’s heart ache 
with sudden pity, “don’t let it be too far away.” 

“You shall go next week if you wish,” he said, 
gravely, no hesitation in his voice. 

He could not restrict the desires of this poor little 
sore hearted daughter of his, for in spite of Nan’s 
bravery and effort to hide her heart, her father 
knew full well the wound that lay open to the least 
touch beneath the cloak of her pride. And the next 
instant she was weeping her heart out in his arms. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

AND THEN CUT DEEPER. 

“She may be more ready with her reply. She 
would not wish me to think she cared for him, and 


136 


AT A oinra mercy. 


this may be my time. If she refuses^ or gives me 
any more of her devilish temper, I’ll set the trap a 
little deeper. She’ll not escape me if there is power 
in earth or heaven to win her. I never give over 
when once my mind is made up.” 

It was a day or two after that on which the news 
reached the Hall that Ned Travers was dead, and 
Howard Blake had timed his visit well, for he knew 
Nan’s proud spirit would never show to him how 
deeply the wound had cut, or that Captain Travers 
was more to her than a pleasant friend. Had she not 
shielded her heart well that morning, even laughing 
as though there were nothing gone wrong, save that 
the intense pallor of her face and the set lines of the 
sweet mouth had betrayed her. But she need not 
have so attempted to hide from him the secret of her 
heart. He had fathomed it long ago, and would use 
it to work his end. He was capable of that, and 
worse, if necessary, to win her. He smiled grimly 
at the thought of how well he had worked his plans, 
and how they had succeeded. And he could be more 
cruel than he had been if she did not give him 
kindly answer to what he would say to-day. There 
was nothing should thwart him now; he had gone 
too far for that. A sudden strange pallor left his 
face deathlike for a moment, and his black eyes 
flashed fiercely under the frowning brows. He had 
gone too far to go back — yes, that was true, and 
there was nothing should turn him back. After all, 
she was well worth the trouble. The thought of his 
revenge for all her slights alone was worth the 
trouble, but he had almost lost the thought of re- 
venge in his new thought of love. She was worth 
loving, and she was worth fighting for. 

He paused at the wicket, and looked down the 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


137 


path toward the summer house, where it was Nan's 
custom to be at that time in the morning, with her 
flowers. But she was not there. She had gathered 
her flowers earlier that morning, so that she could 
sit with her mother when the nurse would allow. 
There was a sweet sadness around her mouth as she 
hurried through the paths, lingering not at all over 
her favorites, and fashioned the bouquet as she 
walked back to the house, ready for the call to go to 
her mother. It had seemed to her that there was 
nothing worse could come to her than this that had 
fallen. Her father had offered no word telling her 
of his knowledge of how sore her heart was as she 
lay weeping so hysterically in his arms, but she 
knew full well he understood, and the thought some- 
how gave her strength. This vent to her suppressed 
feelings had done her good, too, and the terrible 
stony feeling had left her heart. That Ned was 
dead and could never come back to her she fully 
realized during the long hours she spent in her room 
afterward, but sh® could command herself, and 
could go about her duties as gently as though it 
were not so, for she had renewed courage and hope 
in the thought of being able to go and do for those 
other soldiers what some one must have done for 
him, and she would be brave and tender as she would 
have wished his nurse to be to him when he was 
borne in, with the dreadful death wound in his side. 
She shivered when she thought of all these little de- 
tails, when she pictured, with all the graphic imagi- 
nation a slight knowledge offered, how he must have 
suffered, and yet how brave he was during those 
few minutes that he lived. If he only might have 
sent one word to cheer her through the work she 
would take up for his sake. Thinking of this brought 


138 


AT A OIKVS MERCY, 


back to her remembrance the note he sent her not 
so very long ago, and that had been with her so con- 
stantly, though there was little need of her reading 
it over again, she knew so well every word by 
heart. She smiled sadly as she paused in the gar- 
den, where the shadows were darker than they had 
been for a long time, there being no sunlight to-day, 
the heavens gray with clouds. She paused and put her 
hand in her pocket for the note. But it was not 
there. She started in wonder and dismay, and only 
remembered that it must have dropped, and been 
crushed among the flowers she so ruthlessly trod 
upon that dreadful morning when Howard Blake 
broke so abruptly to her the news of her friend’s 
death. She had it in her hand when he came up 
the garden, she remembered, and after that she had 
no recollection of what became of it, only it must 
have dropped and been crushed with the flowers. 
The quick tears sprang to her eyes, but she would 
not let them fall. It was her own carelessness that 
had robbed her of her friend’s last written word, 
and she should not spend any time in vain weeping. 
But she bit her lip with vexation as she turned for a 
moment, and looked down to where she stood that 
morning when the dread news came. The walk had 
been cleared of all dead flowers and leaves that fell, 
as was the gardener’s habit every morning, and her 
flowers must have been gathered with the others and 
thrown away. Perhaps John knew of the white bit 
of paper among the flowers. She would ask him. 
If he had found the note he might have saved it for 
her. Or if he had not found it he would search and 
perhaps And it for her. But no, John had seen noth- 
ing of the paper, had seen no paper in the garden 
on that morning. There seldom was paper there. If 


AT A GIRL’S MERCY. 


139 


there had been he would almost certainly have no- 
ticed it. Was she sure she dropped it there? Of 
course she was sure, and John was a stupid fellow. 
The paper was gone surely, and she had no one* to 
thank for it but herself. 

Had Howard Blake, standing at the gate in the 
garden, known Miss Nan’s sad heart that morning, 
he might have softened his own heart toward her, 
and given over in a little his set determination to 
make sure of her in one way or another. Should she 
refuse him, or have no kindly word of a better an- 
swer than refusal, at some future time, he would 
work his plans as he had laid them for such a need. 
But he was already put out at not finding her in the 
garden, and felt no softening toward her as he 
passed up the walk to the house. Should she be out, 
he muttered, as he mounted the steps, should she be 
out, he would either wait her return or go to meet 
her, for he would not be hindered in any way to- 
day. He had no patience, and could brook no delay. 
But she would not be out, for she had been no far- 
ther than the garden or the gate under the elms, 
where she sat waiting for her father some two or 
three nights ago, since her mother’s illness. If she 
were not in the garden, or on the lawn she would be 
in the house. He would see her. He would not be 
put off by any hindrance fate might see fit to lay in 
his path. He would know that day, that hour if 
there was any hope of winning Nan Courtland by 
fair means. If these failed, he could still fall back 
upon the darker means he would not hesitate to use. 

But Nan was in. She was in her mother’s room, 
and came down, after a short delay, to meet him. 
There was a sweet gravity about her reception of 
him that sent a thrill of hope along his blood. But 


140 


AT A QIRVS MERCY, 


he would not trust to her greeting. There were few 
she greeted other than kindly. It was the answer 
she would give him that should satisfy him, not the 
gentleness of her first few words. 

‘Tt is good to know your mother is really so much 
improved,” he said, smiling, when they were seated, 
he on the wide chair with his back to the window, 
she on a divan where the light fell full upon her 
face. ‘Tt has been a weary time for you and your 
father. Miss Nan. I am glad for both of you.” 

She smiled slowly, her eyes meeting his kindly. 
Any one would be kind to another who said such 
pleasant words of her mother. Still, there was some- 
thing about him this morning that oppressed her, 
she knew not why. She toyed nervously with a fan 
that lay on the stand beside her. She could not be 
herself, try as she would. 

‘‘You are very good, Mr. Blake,” she said. “It is 
delightful to have mother again. Just think, it is 
such a long time since she was with us, and we 
wanted her so much just at this dreadful time, when 
we cannot know what day the papers might tell us 
of what we would not know — of what we would not 
have happen. Sometimes when I look over the list 
of wounded or killed, after some of these frightful 
battles, it seems as though the boys must bear 
charmed lives to go through so safely. I wonder 
if the war will never end.” 

“All things have an end,” Mr. Blake said, quietly, 
“even such evils as this war. Miss Nan. But some- 
times it does seem as though it would last years 
longer. Every day brings some still more indisputa- 
ble proof of it. The Confederates have some marvel- 
ous generals, and will carry the thing as nearly to 
victory as they can, that is why the war cannot end 


AT A OIBL'S MBRCr. 


141 


quite yet. They are fighting for what they think is 
right as well as our soldiers are.’’ 

‘‘Yes,” Nan said, gravely. She let the fan fall in 
her lap, and folded her hands with intensity as she 
added, with sudden fire: “Oh, I wish I were a man 
to fight them. I could give them the will and the 
manhood, anyway, and the truest side must win, 
and I am so sure ours is the truest side, and the 
winning will come if it is long in coming. All things 
do come if we wait.” Then the fire died from her 
face and eyes as she leaned back among the cush 
ions tiredly, and smiled a sad little smile, saying, 
slowly, with a quiver in her voice, “But it is so long 
we have to wait.” 

Howard Blake could have found it in his heart to 
forgive her all the unkind speeches she had made to 
him, all the many unkind little acts she had been 
guilty of because of her dislike of him, when he sat 
with her intense face before him, and the quiver in 
the sweet, low voice. He would gladly have com- 
forted her had she given him the right. He would 
even have yielded some of his harsh plans that 
should make her his whether she would or no, but 
he could not do it with his present hope. And then 
— as he thought of it the old sinister smile lurked 
around his thin lips — he had gone too far to turn 
back one iota. She should give him her answer to- 
day, now, and should it prove other than the an- 
swer he would have, then the net of his plans should 
be drawn tighter about her, and her power to escape 
him gradually weakened. For win her he would, 
by fair means or foul. He had not planned in what 
words he should tell her of his wish. He had deter- 
mined to tell her that he would win her, and that 
was all. That the words would come at the right 


142 


AT A GIBVS MERCY. 


time, he had not a doubt. When had words ever 
failed him? And they surely would never fail him in 
the presence of such a wee woman as Nan Court- 
land. But as he sat there with her pure, pale face 
before him, and her frank eyes looking into his, he 
grew afraid of what he might say, and his courage 
failed him almost to his leaving the words unsaid 
altogether for that day. But he laughed inwardly 
as he thought of this girl’s daring to refuse him, 
and ere Nan knew of what he would do, he had 
arisen and stood before her, stooping to catch her 
hands in his, a flush on his dark face, a light in his 
black eyes that startled her. 

“Nan,” he said, swiftly — “Nan, look up — listen to 
me. You have always been cruel to me; be kind to 
me this morning, and tell me that you will give me 
hope — that you will love me some time, if you do not 
love me now, for I love you. Nan — I love you, and I 
will win you.” 

She shrank from the pain he was inflicting crush- 
ing her hands in his, his eyes upon her flercely, as 
though he were capable of killing her should she 
say him nay. She tried to draw her hands from his, 
but he would not let them go. A flush came to her 
cheeks and a flash in her eyes. Her lips curved 
scornfully and her voice was steady with wrath as 
she said, icily : 

“Mr Blake, I have never given you the slightest 
right to say this to me. I have shown you in every 
way a woman could how utterly I dislike you. For- 
give me if this sounds harsh, but you have no right 
to think I would have any other answer for you. I 
have tried to be kind to you lately, for you have 

tried to be kind to me, but this ” the scorn in her 

voice made his eyes blaze, and his voice was shaken 


AT A GIRLS MERCY. 


143 


by fury as he interrupted her through clenched 
teeth : 

‘‘This, as you say, in your scornful voice. Miss Nan 
—this you have given me no right to expect, as you 
say in your answer, I will show you I do expect. I 
will win you, Nan Courtland, whether it be ten 
years from now, or but a month hence, win you I 
will, and when I come to you again your answer 
will not be so scornful as it is now. I will move 
heaven and earth to win you, but I will succeed. 
And then,’’ he leaned toward her, laughing bitterly, 
“then you shall see that I am not to be scorned by 
you. Then you may be grateful that I have spared 
you the suffering that I might have given. Then you 
will acknowledge that both you and your father are 
so deeply in my debt that to answer yes, should I 
ask it, would be an honor you little deem it now.” 

She had arisen and confronted him, drawn to her 
full height, her blue eyes afire with womanly indig- 
nation at his taking advantage of her few kind 
words in this manner. He had thrown her hands 
aside scornfully, and now she clenched the slim 
white hands at her side as she stood before him in 
her proud womanhood. 

“You forget yourself, Mr. Blake. I knew that you 
were capable of some act of meanness when you did 
not press your claim upon my father, but I could 
scarcely have believed you could sink to this. 
Would you win my father’s daughter through the 
hold you might have upon him financially? Let me 
tell you, no Courtland is to be won in that way. And 
no true woman would listen to such barter. My fa- 
ther, Howard Blake, loves his country and his 
daughter too well to give her into the keeping of a 
man who refuses to lift his hand to aid in the slight- 


144 


AT A OIRFS MERCY, 


est degree the sufferings of his country and her sol- 
diers. I should have given you your answer more 
kindly, but I cannot conceive how you for one mo- 
ment suppose I could have answered differently, 
knowing you as I do.’’ 

He ground his teeth with rage at her swift words 
of scorn. Had she been a man he would have struck 
her where she stood. As it was, he would be even 
with her. He would win — had he not warned her 
that he would win even if he had to move heaven 
and earth to do so? He would come to her again, 
and she would not meet his suit then with this scorn- 
ing. He had worked his plans well so far, but the 
future would show with what cunning he could de- 
vise a way to prove his boast not vain. He would 
win her by other means, now fair means had failed. 
He held the net in his hands, and could draw the 
cords tighter at his will. She should feel his power, 
and he would have his revenge. Every word she had 
spoken in her anger that day should be but stronger 
cords to tighten the net about her life. He had other 
means to make his power felt should this claim upon 
her father prove unavailing. He had not woven his 
net in vain. He knew well the squire’s position 
toward the government, and a word from him would 
set a crowd of maddened brutes upon his track ; or 
there was their mode of striking in the dark. He 
would draw his snare daily nearer and nearer the 
attaining of his end. She should not escape him— 
she could not escape him— he had gone too far to 
turn back. 

He laughed as scornfully as she could have done, 
and turned back as he was leaving the room, facing 
her as she stood full in the light of the high win- 
dow. There was a gleam of triumph in his black 


AT A QinUS MERCY, 


145 


eyes that sent the blood surging back upon her 
heart, and set her face like marble. 

“I go now at your bidding, Miss Nan/' he said. 
“When I return, you will have an answer more to my 
liking. Good-morning." 

He bowed, mockingly, and was gone, and she 
stood where he had left her, looking after him, in- 
dignation and a vague fear mingling in her 
thoughts. She had done her part of treating him 
well as she could up to now. She had kept a tight 
rein upon her hatred of him because of his hold upon 
her father, but now she had lost all by her angry 
words. And yet she could have done no different 
should he come as he had then. He must have seen 
how she detested him. He was not so blind as not 
to know that she — the daughter of a loyal father, 
the sister of two brave brothers— could never have a 
kind answer to such words as his. Was her heart 
not sore enough that he must come in on her life in 
this fashion? Had she not enough sadness without 
feeling that his anger would seek to harm her or 
those dearer than herself?. If she had kept her tem- 
per — if she only could have kept her temper and 
given him a kinder answer, though never other 
than she did, she might have done her duty better, 
but how could she have done so? How could she 
endure his presuming without resenting it? And 
yet her heart was sore and troubled all the day 
through, because of the threat that he left with her. 

CHAPTER XV. 

NOT RECKONING THE END. 

“What is it, papa?” Nan demanded, when they 
left her mother'^ i^oom^ after spending almost an 


146 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


hour there, in the evening. They were going down 
the stairs to the library, and Nan’s hands were 
around her father’s arm, her face lifted anxiously to 
his. For she knew that the wrinkle between his 
brows meant more than usual trouble, though he had 
kept up bravely and proved by no word that aii}-- 
thing was wrong. “You needn’t try to hide it from 
me,” she added, and now her voice was half merry 
and her face arch, lifted up to his. “You needn’t 
try, papa, because I would find it out, anyhow, and 
you would only have your bother for nothing. Is 
there any more trouble in the city with the rioters, 
or is it something other than that, that makes that 
dreadful frown on your face? I don’t like to see it, 
and therefore you are to confess to me at once, and 
free your mind of its evils.” 

“Every one is worried about the war. Nan,” the 
squire said, quietly, endeavoring to turn her off in 
that way, not wishing to tell her the true cause of 
his anxiety. “It seems as though times were grow- 
ing worse every day for our soldiers, and we can do 
so very little for them.” 

“But the times have been growing worse steadily 
since the war began,” Nan said, calmly, with a little 
air of wisdom, “and you have not before come home 
with that troubled face. It is more than that, and 
we who are comrades in the home ranks may as well 
comfort each other. I know it is more than that, 
papa dearest, so you may as well tell me.” 

She knew it was more than what he said, and there 
was a dread dawning in her heart that it might be 
due to some villainy of Howard Blake’s. His face, 
as it looked when he left her that morning, had 
haunted her through the day, and she felt instinct- 
ively that he would be true tp his threat of ven- 


AT A QIBVS MERCY, 


U7 


geance for her answer to his suit. Not that she cared 
for herself, for she had not the slightest fear of him, 
for herself, but she would do all she could to keep 
her father from more worry and anxiety than had 
already befallen him. Now, as she looked search- 
ingly up in her father’s face, seamed with so many 
years, the latter of which had been so full of worry, 
that even his sturdy nature must yield to its influ- 
ence, she realized that he was growing old, and 
weak, and stooping about the shoulders, that had 
seemed to her from her earliest remembrance, the 
strongest, proudest shoulders man could possess, 
and she could not bear to think that it was through 
any forgetfulness, on her part of his comfort, that 
any new trouble had fallen upon him. 

‘‘Poor papa,” she said tenderly, giving the arm she 
held an affectionate little pressure, feeling, with a 
pang at her heart, how his usually firm step was 
weakened. “Poor, dear papa. You are bothering 
over something that will seem so much lighter when 
once you have told your little Nan. I am so truly 
anxious to know, that you cannot refuse to tell 
me. Come, here is your chair, and here am I at your 
feet in our pretty confessional, and you are to tell 
me, without one speck of fear, all that there is in 
your heart. Don’t keep a thing back, papa dear; 
it will do you good to tell your Nan.” 

She stroked softly and lightly the hand upon his 
knee, and watched him with loving eyes, her lifted 
face tender with sympathy that touched the strong 
man’s heart as words could not have done. She had 
learned so thoroughly in the past year how to reach 
his heart to comfort him, now especially since her 
mother was unable to fill her part to the brave old 
squire. She had so studied to comfort him, and sure- 


148 


AT A GIRL’S MERCY. 


ly she would not fail him now, when there was add- 
ed sorrow upon him. 

Her comforting was so sweet to the squire. He 
loved this small daughter of his with an intensity 
and depth that he wondered at himself, and placed 
her always even before the two sons, of whom any 
father might well be proud. 

There was a strength and purity about her that 
drew the strong man’s proud nature, and a sweet- 
ness withal that had long ago, when the world was 
somewhat younger, won the heart of the gallant cap- 
tain of the guards, when he met pretty Cora Stan- 
hope at a ball. Nan’s sweetness refreshed him as 
her sturdy old war spirit strengthened him, and 
therefore he came to her when he could never have 
gone to another, excepting the one woman who was 
then unable to do so. He stooped now and touched 
tenderly the sunny head, with its bonny curls, as he 
said gently, his steel blue eyes softening, meeting 
the frank eyes lifted to his. 

“Always my brave Nan. What will the old father 
do when his sunbeam is gone from the old Hall, and 
some brave laddie on the battle field claims her care? 
It will be hard at first. Nan, but I would not keep you 
here, when you are needed there, not if I could.” 

“But you’re not telling me of what you are think- 
ing, papa.” Nan leaned her head against the hand 
on his knee, in answer to his tender words of her 
going, though she could not quite bring herself to 
speak of her going. “If your little Nan can help 
you, remember you are to tell her what troubles you, 
or her help will be a blind sort of thing.” 

“But why should I burden you with any trouble 
little girl?” 

The squire’s face worked strangely for a moment. 


AT A GIRVS MERCY. 


149 


Had not Nan all a girl should have to make her 
heart sad? Why should he lay heavier burden upon 
the willing shoulders, dimpled with the freshness of 
youth? Why should he darken her sweet life with 
his worries and struggles to overcome the battle of 
his own life away from the battle-fields where he 
would so gladly have fought for his country's honor? 
How could he let her know in how much she was 
the cause of his present troubles, and why he had 
been so long troubled in regard to meeting the 
exigencies of the case, following any unkind act 
of hers toward Howard Blake, his creditor? But 
Nan read his thoughts, and came to his assistance 
with her quick, strong words. 

“It’s that horrid Howard Blake, Papa Court- 
land!” she cried, starting up and facing him with 
hashing eyes. “You needn’t deny it. I am as sure 
of it as though you had already told me, and I was 
so afraid he would do this that I know he has done, 
because— oh, papa, dearest, even you would not 
have me do it 1 How could I ever say I could care 
for such a coward? How could I ever try to do more 
than tolerate him? I simply couldn’t, papa. I am 
sorry I spoke to him as crossly as I did, but I was 
so angry at him even thinking I would or could 
think anything of him, that I said what I felt like 
saying' at the time, without thinking of how it 
might affect you. If he has done anything unkind 
I am so sorry, papa, but I could never have an- 
swered him other than I did. And what if he has 
demanded his money? Can’t you pay it to him, 
papa? Can’t you give him the amount at once, so 
you need never worry about it any more? It will be 
so good to be out of his hands, papa ! One would be 

willing to do almost anything for that. We would 


150 


AT A GIBUS MERCY. 


even do without giving so much to the help of those 
we wish, to be rid of him. He is such a coward, it 
is unjust to our soldiers to send the money to them 
that we would pay him with. They wouldn’t want 
it, I am sure, if they knew, papa.” 

Her eyes were purple and flashing, her face 
flushed, while her slim white Angers were clasped 
flercely together as she uttered her flerce [protest 
against the man who was too cowardly himself to 
help flght the battles of their country, and yet could 
hold such a brave face against the claim of what 
should never be made good to him. 

“How did you know, Han?” the squire asked, 
leaning his head back wearily against the cushions 
of the chair. 

It had fallen upon him suddenly, this demand 
for the money stolen during its presence in his 
house, although he had been ready for some 
such claim every day, knowing the man to whom 
it belonged, though he had hoped in a brave sort of 
way to himself that even this Howard Blake would 
see the neighborly side of the question, and let the 
sum remain to his credit until the war was over. It 
had proved a vain hope, but the proof of this had 
made the need of returning it harder than he would 
have believed. And it came, too, at a time when 
he was, if anything, less able than usual to meet the 
demand, for he had sent away as much as he could 
only the day before, and his ready money was 
drained pretty low, and he would have to draw the 
necessary thousands from his banlcers. Up to this 
he had been careful to use only what was free of the 
bank books, for he would not, when he should be 
called away, leave less than shouldering comforts to 
those he left behind. He was growing old. He 


AT A GlIWS MERCY. 


151 


could not many years longer work for those whom 
he so tenderly loved, and when he should be called 
from them he would not leave them less than com- 
fortably provided for. He had thought of this many 
times lately. He felt his strength giving out, and 
his once powerful form weakening. There had been 
so much crowded into the last year or so. What 
with the war, and this robbery, and the illness of his 
wife, with the boys under the fire of the enemy- 
how could a man do less than fret himself into more 
speedy old age than a quiet life would have given 
him? And this little girl of his to know that life 
must hold bitterness as well as sweet for her al- 
ready, when she had scarcely left girlhood behind 
her. It was very bitter to his proud nature, but, 
after all, he could bear anything rather than owe 
any man a dollar. After all, he would rather the 
claim of his neighbor be paid while he was still 
there to work for his loved ones, than to leave it until 
it could never be so readily paid. What if it did 
cramp him for some time? He knew better how to 
meet the straightened means th^n they could know. 
He could still hold up his head with all honor ; he 
had done nothing one should be ashamed of. Nan’s 
spirit had entered him, and he was ready and will- 
ing to meet The demands of Howard Blake on the 
morrow without a pang of remorse. Nan saw the 
change in his face, and knew her triumph. She 
laughed softly, and dropped again at his feet, the 
fiash gone from her eyes. They were tender now 
with sympathy. 

‘Tt isn’t so very much you owe Mr. Blake, papa,” 
she said. ‘'Fifty thousand is a nice little sum, but, 
after all, it isn’t as though it were a hundred thou- 
sand. One might as well comfort one’s self with that 


152 


AT A QIBVS MEBCT, 


thought. And how we will feel to be thoroughly 
rid of that man. I could never bear to think he had 
the slightest claim upon you — not that I think he 
has now,” she added, with her old spirit of defense 
returning, fighting her father’s rights, “but as long 
as he claims that he has it is so much nicer to get rid 
of it. I shall feel as though I could breathe freer 
now. He always stifled me. 1 felt so sure of his 
capability to do whatever should enter his mind to 
do, especially where money is concerned. What do 
we care for a few paltry thousands when we have 
our dear brave boys and dear little mother to fight 
for us, and we to fight for? We ought to think of 
our blessings, too, papa, and then we will be better 
able to bear the losses.” She laughed her low, sweet 
laugh, that rippled over the red lips like the natural 
utterance of such a heart. Her eyes were deep in 
their color and brave, looking up into the grave 
face above, with its marks of care and its marks of 
age creeping daily deeper. “There are so many fall- 
ing, papa, while our boys are safe, and now here 
has mother been given back to us, her dear, sweet 
self, paler and frailer, to be sure, but still the dear 
little mother just the same. And when the war is 
over our boys will come back, and we will be so 
proud and happy.” 

She would not even allow the thoughts of that 
other, who would never come back when the war 
should be over, to come between her and her fa- 
ther’s comforting. She would not let self gain the 
upper hand of her now. When she should be alone 
in her own room, with no one to see, she could fight 
her own battles and her own heart ache. How she 
had her father to comfort, and what were her own 
sorrows, after all, to his? Was she not young, and 


AT A QIBrS MERCY, 


153 


strong, and willing to fight? "Was she not going in 
such a little while to take up her work in the battle? 
Could she not, for the little while that she was with 
the home folks, put herself aside, and leave only 
the memory of loving thoughts with them? They 
would so gladly have given her anything in the 
world she could have asked for, they were so readily 
letting her go from them when they did need her— 
she knew they did need her comfort, though not so 
much as those sufferers out on the fields were 
needing the care that would help them back to life, 
or ease their dying— and should she not put her own 
thoughts aside for their needs while yet she re- 
mained with them in the dear old Hall where her 
eyes had first seen the light? She lifted her tender 
face, bright as her sunny spirit could make it, as 
she added, for his comfort : 

‘'When your little Nan comes back from the war, 
and the boys are here, and the Hall is as noisy and 
as topsy-turvy as it used to be, and you sit under the 
vines on the lawn with mamma, watching our squab- 
bling, you will forget there ever was such a terrible 
thing as this war, papa dearest. And we will be 
just your bad, naughty children come back, to be 
scolded and frowned upon, as you just now frowned 
when you were thinking of that precious coward of 
ours.’’ 

She laughed and shook her head, with its curls 
aquiver, and let her own heart-sorrows rest behind 
the veil of her womanhood and pride, and her own 
thoughts fade with the thoughts that must come 
with this grave, brave old face before her, and the 
thought of how much it had borne during the past 
year! She patted the rough hand, and still looked 
merrily into the grave face, determined, ere she 


164 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


should leave it for the night, to see the smile re- 
turn that used to be her great delight to waken. It 
had been so long since she had seen that. He had 
been so brave and thoughtful of her comfort that 
she had seen a smile when she knew the heart 
ache was only uppermost, but the smile she loved 
had not stirred his lips since the boys went away, 
and the silence of the great house was wakened 
only by her light feet and her weak efforts to keep 
the cheery life going to comfort the troubled hearts. 

“I was just thinking, papa,’’ she said, letting her 
eyes reflect the smile on her lips, ‘‘of the time when 
Charlie and Frank and I played truant, and stole our 
ponies from the stables that we might go nutting in 
the woods back here instead of going to the plodding 
old school, and how you discovered our intentions, 
and punished us with your stern face, though never 
a word did you say of blame or reproof. It was al- 
ways your face that punished me more than any 
other thing could have done. When you smiled I 
knew I had done nothing to displease you, but when- 
ever I think of your face as it was that day, I wonder 
how I could ever have done what must have brought 
that look upon it.” 

He patted the curly head under his hand, and 
there was the flickering of the old look upon his 
face as he met the earnest blue eyes under the fluffy 
golden hair fallen low upon the white brow. The 
old memories came back to him, too, but they were 
not all so sweet as she would have them in her ten- 
der thought for him. There was a touch of the bit- 
ter in his smiling as he added to her merry words : 

“And how young Travers stood up in his manly 
way— he was always manly, that boy— and took the 
blame upon himself, when he knew full well he was 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


155 


no more to blame than my own boys and my little 
witch of a girl. He was always so true to his 
friends, Nan. And he taught our Frank the brave 
spirit of independence that sent him ready for the 
fiercest of the fight, with the down scarcely on his 
lip. And Charlie was with you two in all your 
scrapes, he was such a limb for fun 

“Only Helen had such a sweet influence over him 
always,” Nan added, the old thoughts coming up to 
drown the cry against the memories of the brave 
boy who would defend her with his own life were it 
necessary, and who now could never come back to 
her from the war. “Helen had such a sweet in- 
fluence over him always, papa, that he could never 
quite get into such scrapes as the rest of us, for 
Helen would never do anything she could be 
ashamed of afterward, if it were only in fun as 
we used to try to persuade her. She is well fitted 
to do the work she is doing, papa. I only hope I 
may do mine one third as well.” 

“Our Nan and Helen are not the same,”' the squire 
said, gently, “for the one is more of the woman 
than the other, but our Nan has the tender heart 
and the sweet comforting that makes the world bet- 
ter for its presence, and Helen has the strong spirit 
and the womanly years that make her what the 
world needs at this terrible time of trial. But I 
would never change my tender hearted little Nan 
for the bravest, strongest woman in the world. She 
will do her work on the field as well as the other, 
and her face will be as sweet in the memory of our 
soldiers as even the pure, gentle face of the other 
girl.” 

“You are always so strongly in my favor, papa,” 
Nan laughed, though the silken lashes drooping over 


156 


AT A GIRLS MERCY. 


the blue eyes were wet, and the smiling mouth was 
trembling, ‘‘that I am sure I shall never do you dis- 
credit by my cowardice, for very shame of so doing, 
though I am afraid many times I shall be tempted 
to run when the worst shall come. It is so hard to 
face the cruel side of life and to see suffering that 
one cannot help.’’ 

And the squire stooped to kiss the smooth brow, 
brushing back the truant yellow curls with tender 
hand, as he said tenderly, the glimmer of his old 
smile on his lips : 

“My Nan will ever wear her brave spirit through 
whatever life shall bring her. I have no fear. 
Only may the good Lord give her at such times as 
sweet and tender a comforter as she has been to me.” 

And Nan’s heart was warm with the memory of 
these words as she bent above the suffering bed of 
one of her soldier patients many a time, and she 
could never forget either the words or the voice that 
uttered them, should she have heavier burdens of 
suffering to bear than now were on her tender shoul- 
ders. 

But when Howard Blake again strode down the 
slope of clover toward the gate in the Hall garden, he 
found no Nan at the old summer-house, with her lap 
full of the flowers and the sunshine and bird song-s 
around her, but found instead the brave soul that 
had carried the girl through many trials even in the 
heart of her home, had won her to the field where 
the suffering lay, doing what she could to relieve the 
A\oild s sorrows, as she must do, being the woman 
she was, and he comprehended that even such a 
frail thing as a woman’s hand is sometimes able to 
thwart the plans of a scheming man, and set his 
threads at defiance. For he had never dreamed of 


AT A GIRIJS MERCY, 


157 


this ending to his planning for her winning. And he 
would not even now give up the fight, so intense 
was his desire for revenge and the winning of the 
proud, pure woman who could so easily reject his 
suit after his having gone already too far in his plan- 
ning to turn back. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

A TENDER NURSE. 

What a contrast to the quiet old Hall, set in its 
shady lawn and fragrant garden, were the scenes 
among which Helen Travers moved. No tender 
lights and shadows, with the soft air and fragrant 
flowers swinging their quiet lives away through the 
summer hours, but the thunder of the cannon, the 
shrieking of shells, the trample of horses, and the 
shouting of men through the days and into the 
nights; while many a brave soldier breathed his 
life out under her tender care, blessing the gentle 
lady, whose face was so tender with its brave hazel 
eyes and delicate mouth trying to smile into the 
fading eyes looking up to hers. No flowers were 
there to lay on the quiet forms after death had set 
his seal upon them, only the tender closing of the 
eyes from which all light had fled, and the sending 
of sad messages, told so bravely with the last falter- 
ing breath. Only the sweet, low prayer whispered 
as the spirit was gathering for its flight, and the 
wiping of the death dews from brows where the 
smoke and seams of battle had given place for these, 
and the touch of cool water to the parching lips. 
But, after all, she stood her ground, and did her best 
when the best was all any one could do, and she 
watched the paling of brave, bronzed faces until she 
learned in all its strength the ennobling influences 
of the spirit of true manhood. There were so many 
battles, and so many wounded after each, that the 
girl began to wonder how it was that the ranks were 
kept so full and the struggle borne along with such 
grand bravery. She knew more of the bitterness of 
war in the few months she had been in its midst 


158 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


than she could have learned from a life’s telling 
over and over its history of bitterness and disap- 
pointments for many a heart. 

So far there had come under Helen’s care but one 
of her old friends, and he had but a short stay, his 
wound being such that caused less care from the 
nurse than many others, though it took perhaps as 
long to heal, and sent him home on a leave that 
would be better than lying in the sickening hospital, 
where the sight of others suffering must weaken 
even the bravest. It was a shock to her at first, 
catching sight of the face of one of her many 
friends lying among the pillows of the rude cot, and 
it had brought to her with sudden nearness the for- 
tunes of war. But when she sent him away with a 
light heart to his home with messages for her other 
friends there, though he assured her it would not 
be long ere he returned to the field, and possibly to 
her care again, she had smiled her brave smile, 
and sent him off, a faint, sickening wish to go with 
him, out of this terrible place, with death her daily 
companion, and suffering her daily friend. But she 
put away the thought as she would put away any 
other thought that was to unfit the heart of a sister 
of the Union, and went about her, duties with a 
stouter heart and a more willing hand, determined 
to do to the utmost what she could for the brave 
men brought to her hands. 

But, one day, when the air of the hospital was 
stifling and the heat of the day brought to an end 
more than one weakened body, there came in with 
the one or two others, for whom there was room, 
one young fellow whom Helen Travers counted 
among her friends, a young fellow with steady gray 
eyes and a bronzed, bearded face, whose pallor 
could not blind her eyes for knowing, and whose 
close shut lips proved to her, with a sudden swift 
pang at her heart, how intense was his suffering. 
Somehow she had feared this would come to her, 
and had daily watched, gladdened, even in the midst 
of the suffering of others, when she looked in vain. 
But to-day she learned how weak she was, after all 
her apparent bravery, when she was called to help 


AT A OIRrS MERCY. 


159 


the surgeon with this brave fellow. He lay on the 
pillow of his rude cot as though death indeed had 
touched him, excepting that the steady eyes, open- 
ing upon the nurse, grew suddenly intensely bright, 
and the close set lips parted slowly into a smile that 
lighted the rugged face with its lines of suffering 
and its wonderful self-repression. One of the 
weakened hands reached out toward her as she 
bent above him, his voice kept steady by strength of 
will, not strength of body, as he said, gently : 

“You are here, Helen? I knew you would be 
somewhere where there was need of such as you.” 
And then suddenly, as the light had come to his face, 
it went out, and he lay dead, she thought at first, 
until the voice of the surgeon roused her to her 
duties and herself. 

“A friend of yours, eh. Miss Travers? One of 
the bravest fellows of this war. Wouldn’t have lost 
his leg, as he will have to do, if he hadn’t stopped 
to help along some other wounded fellow — some 
weak little chap, no doubt, for it’s like him. He’s lost 
a sight of blood, and will have a tough pull for it, 
but we’ll save him if it’s in our power, Nurse Travers 
— we’ll save him if it’s in our power. Such fellows 
as he are needed, and we cannot let him go just 
yet.” 

But Helen knew other as brave fellows had gone, 
and her heart would not be comforted just then. But 
she must not give up her work for vain mourning, 
and her hands were as steady and her face as sweet 
helping in this work of dressing the wound of this 
friend whom she had hoped not to see there. And 
not to him wholly either could she give her care, for 
there were others who needed it as much as he, and 
she could not let friendship stand in her way. 

It was some time before she could return to his 
side after the wound was dressed, and all done that 
could be done at that time, but her thoughts were 
with him wherever she went, though never to the 
neglect of her duty, for she would not allow herself 
to be so selfish as that. She would be unworthy of 
his friendship, she said to herself, should she neglect 
any of her duty even to care for him. And the sur- 


160 


AT A amrs mercy. 


geon had no fault to find with Nurse Travers, even 
when he called her away, time after time, from the 
side of her friend, who was very quiet, sleeping as 
he must sleep to recover, but lying so white and still 
that her heart at times must fail her for thinking 
his heart had ceased to beat. But no one knew save 
the surgeon that a closer friend than any there was 
under her care, and no one could find any fault with 
the gentle nurse who bent above them as tender and 
sweet as she would have bent above the other, and 
her voice was as soft and steady, with its brave 
effort to comfort and strengthen the impatient souls 
under the restraint of suffering, as it could have been 
at any other time. But as she went among the cots 
of her section, there was a slight lingering beside 
that on which lay the sturdy form of her old time 
friend, and the set face upon the pillows, so white 
and still, never knew of the tender light in the 
warm hazel eyes of the woman bending above, her 
soul going out in the prayer for the recovery of this 
brave soldier of whom the world was in need, of 
whom she would not think in sadder thought than 
of the others, for she could not bring herself to be 
willing for him to go, he, her friend from childhood, 
and it may be her tender soul, set so close around 
him, held back his soul when it must have otherwise 
gone from his keeping. But it was sorry watching 
for her. How could she hold so utterly her heart in 
check as she did, she could never know herself, for 
it was sorely trying, but she kept her pure faith and 
her pure soul free from thought of self, and the days 
passed, many of them with this new soldier of hers 
raving upon his bed, struggling with his nurses and 
the surgeons, fighting over, it would seem, the bat- 
tles he had passed through, but through them all 
bearing the thought of +he old Hall with its home 
faces and the face of this friend who was watching 
him with the tenderness she had promised his sister 
she would give him should there be need. She had 
not forgotten her promise ; she could never forget 
her promise, nor the sad evening she spent ere she 
left her home, with the dainty, true, eyed sister of 
this man, whose soul had been in her eyes as she 


AT A GIRrs MRRCr. 


161 


®f this tender thought 
should theie be need during the terrible time she 
should spend in the midst of the battle-fields and 
that must come to her. 
thinking of that evening as she stood be- 

fniVlap going her last round ere giv- 

mg place to the night watch, and there was a mist 

oif blinded her, and made the face 

on the pillow waver before her and fade to a 
strange pallor. Then he stirred, and the low voice 
weak even in its delirium, began its monotonous 
^ forgot self in the need of quiet- 
ing Inm. He was back in the old garden with Nan 
and Frank and his friends. Helen was back with 
^ ber quiet voice and steady eyes must have 
made themselves felt even in the midst of his wan- 
dering, for presently there came a quiet look in the 
gray eyes, and a gentle softening of the white lips’ 
as the airnless words stopped, and the weak voice 
murmured her name in the old-time tenderness She 
stooped above him, her cool hand on his hot brow 
as she uttered soothing words that brought the look 
of peace to his face. She had forgotten her own feel- 
ings and her own trouble. This was Nan’s brother 
brave Captain Charlie Courtland, brought to her 
care wounded, and there was a warm thrill at her 
heart when the low voice uttered her name, and the 
eyes smiling into his deepened in their color as she 
bent still lower to catch any word he might wish to 
give her for those in the quiet old home where he 
might never again go. 

“Helen,” he said, softly, the deep voice weak in 
spite of his brave effort to make it natural, “I knew 
you would be where— you were— needed. It is sweet 
to have you here near me. It has seemed to me— 
all this time — that an angel was — near me, but I — 
felt it was you !” The parting of the lips in a smile 
that he tried to make brave, was almost more than 
the gentle watcher could bear, but she stood her 
ground with the bravery she would wish the sister 
and friend of such men to show. “Don’t let— them— 
know,” he said, presently, after the eyes, weak in 
spite of themselves, had closed and opened again 


162 


AT A GIBVS MERCY, 


wearily. “I gave — my name — as another, Helen, 
for— I would not— have them know 

She nodded, smiling as though her heart were not 
aching sadly, and said, softly, in her tender voice, 
made more tender and soft by the knowledge of his 
suffering : . , ^ x 

“They shall not know, Charlie. I promise that. I 
gave Nan my word that I would care for you or your 
brother should you come to me, as I would wish rny 
brother to be cared for should there be need. I will 
do as I said, and you need not fear their knowing 
until you tell them yourself. You must not talk any 
more. If I am to care for you you must obey me. I 
can only command the weak, you know.’’ 

It was her old brave spirit uttering its cheer, and 
Charlie Courtland, suffering intensely, more even 
than his gentle nurse could realize, smiled his brave 
smile and closed his eyes obediently, only saying 
very low, so that only she heard : 

“It is sweet to obey such a gentle commander, 
my Helen!” 

Few words, perhaps, but how they cheered her 
during the weary days and nights that followed, 
while he lay fighting against the hold death had 
upon him. Many a time not only the nurse, but the 
surgeon feared the struggle of the brave spirit 
against the body’s weakness would be in vain. It 
was a terrible fight. Never in the ranks, at the 
head of his company, had the young captain strug- 
gled as now he was struggling for his life with the 
help of his nurse and the help of his surgeon. Many 
a time the dickering light nearly died from the gray 
eyes, and the face grew set, as though the touch 
of death was upon him ; but he struggled, and ral- 
lied, and they still kept up their hearts, though it 
was an almost hopeless struggle. But Helen would 
not let her heart fail her. She could save this 
brother of her friend if it were in human power to 
do so. 

“They’re all brave women — every one of them, 
Nurse Travers,” said the surgeon, “but there isn’t 
one of them could bring back the soul to a fainting 
body as you do. There is something in your eyes 


AT A GIRLS MERCY. 163 

and your brave face that sort of helps them to pick 
up new courage, and go ahead with the fight for life. 
I wish you could only cure the sore hearts of those 
waiting for news of these fellows as you cure their 
grumbling. But I always feel that if there is any 
hope for a poor fellow he will win in here. I only 
wish there were room for more than there i-s. There 
are so many whom we cannot crowd in.’’ 

And Helen knew it was too true, and renewed her 
tender efforts to help on those who could be brought 
under their care, thankful that she could do even 
her little to end the terrible war. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A GRATEFUL PATIENT. 

It was a hard struggle, and many times both the 
nurse and the surgeon were ready to give up, but 
still it did not fail. Whether it was Helen’s brave 
spirit giving strength to the brave spirit before her, 
or whether the work of the willing hands was not^ 
yet done, who could tell? But by and by, after days* 
and nights of watching and care, along with the 
care of others as sorely wounded as was the young 
captain, the fits of delirium abated, the fever grew 
less violent, reason returned, and Charlie Court- 
land was on the road to recovery, though still very 
weak and helpless. And when Helen knew beyond 
a doubt her friend would recover, her heart was 
glad and ready, it seemed to her, for anything that 
might come to her. 

But it was harder to keep a cheery face and brave 
heart, after all, while the patient was recovering, 
and merely lay day in and day out lons:ing to enter 
the fight again, and help end the war that was 
draining the country of so many of her sons. He 
had been listening to an especially vivid account of 
a recent battle from the lips of one of the men 
brought in, and he was fuming and fretting as she 
had not thought the big brave man could fume and 
fret, muttering desperate threats of stealing off to 
the fields again if the chance would only offer, with- 


164 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


out the permission of the nurse or surgeon, until 
there dawned a smile around the girl’s mouth and 
a merry light in the hazel eyes regarding the angry 
face upon the pillow. Looking up into the girl’s 
face, the patient involuntarily smiled in return, 
though there was bitterness as well as sweetness in 
the smile. 

“It’s all very well for you to be smiling there, my 
brave little nurse,” he said, “but you do not know 
the need there is for all the men the country can 
command at this very time. What do you know 
about war anyway, Helen? You are doing your 
best and your bravest, but you know really abso- 
lutely nothing of the lack of men, and the terrible 
struggle there is against heavier forces and the 
sagacity of men ruling the war on the other side. 
What do you know of the inner workings of the war 
and the deadly need there is for every man the 
country can give to help her out of the sore trial? 
You’re a dear little brave nurse, and do your work 
as I knew my gentle friend must do, but you are not 
a man, and have not been in the midst of the fight 
as I have, and cannot know what I do. You may 
smile all you will at my longing to go, and tell me it 
is absolutelyimpossible for me to go with this crip- 
pled leg of mine, but I feel sometimes as though I 
would go, that I must get away, that I could not 
bear lying here, not knowing what may be the out- 
come of each day’s bitterness. I am desperate, and 
even you cannot soothe me, though you have the 
tenderness of an angel for soothing a fellow.” 

She laughed softly, though there were traces of 
mist in the depths of her eyes as she laid her gentle 
hand upon the restless hands pulling impatiently at 
the covering of the bed. She knew his heart was 
sore at this enforced idleness, that a brave soul as 
his was must feel the galling of the chains that kept 
him down when he longed to be up and doing with 
all his ardor for the victory of his country. 

“Of course I am a woman, Charlie/’ she said 
gently, “and, of course, you men, dashing away in 
the midst of the battle, with the excitement and the 
danger keeping your spirits up, can never know 


165 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 

what we women, as you call us in rather a scorn- 
ful ” 

“I never thought of scorning you, Helen,’' he 
said, reproachfully, the stronger fingers closing over 
the slender hand of the gentle comforter. ‘‘I could 
never scorn the strength and the bravery and the 
wonderful souls of women, Helen dear, with you for 
a friend all my life. It is only that you do not know 
as Ave do the terrible need there is for every man at 
this time when the victory rests on such slender 
lines, and the ready strength of even one man 
could so easily turn the scale. I could never think 
scornfully of you ” 

She interrupted him with her sweet, low laugh. 
The slender ^ngers once more regained their free- 
dom, and pressed down into quietness the firmer 
fingers of the restless patient. She shook her head 
archly, trying to cheer him, as she said gravely; 

‘Tt isn’t polite to interrupt us so. Captain Court- 
land. And you need not protest your innocence of 
scorn, for I know in your hearts many of you men 
think Avomen are fit only for the quiet of home, and 
think and kno w nothing of the struggle going on in 
the Avorld for their good as Avell as for yours. But 
you do us an injustice — indeed, you do. We keep 
pace Avith the battles as well as you, though we may 
have to sit at home with folded arms. And if Ave are 
able to enter the field even in this simple manner 
of nurse ” 

'Tt is not simple,” again interrupted the deeper 
voice. The gray eyes sought the darker eyes with 
deep reproach. The hands, lying under the gentle 
stroking of the softer hand, were tense with re- 
pressed feeling. “It is not simple, this grand Avork 
you are doing to help on the battle, Helen. But you 
do not know how we feel when Ave are forced to do 
nothing but wait. You cannot understand hoAv a 
man feels tied doAvn with useless hands Avhile others 
are fighting and struggling in the terrible heart of 
the battle. You know me, Helen Travers, and you 
know I could not do other than honor any Avoman 
doing her life work as you are doing yours ” 

“There!” The kindly dark eyes flashed merrily 


166 


AT A omns MERCY. 


into the steady, grieved ones opposite. ‘‘See, you 
cannot even give up trying to flatter us here in the 
very heart of the fleld. You soften, or think 3'ou 
soften, any hard thought of us you may possess by 
a little softened word of our gentle virtues. Oh, 
you can never know us women, Charlie I You flght 
in the field, and you win the great victories of the 
world, and then you come back to us, and say what 
brave women we are to have nursed a few men back 
to life who must else have died. You do not and 
could not credit us with a bravery that sit doing ab- 
solutely nothing but wait, without even knowing 
what may chance to fall upon us from one day to 
the next, having, it may be, some friend, or brother, 
or father, whom we may hear, not knowing, has 
died in the fight, and can never come to us again. 
You say we are brave if we come out to the field, 
and do the work we can do, being simply women, 
but you never know the agony of those sitting at 
home with nothing to do but wait. Oh, yes. you call 
us brave little women, and smile upon us, and 
maybe give us a closer place in your hearts for this 
little we have done, but those others shut out from 
our small field of laboring for those daily falling, 
you never give a thought. Do you not know it takes 
a braver soul, whether woman or man, to sit down 
with nothing to do for the struggle than it does for 
the man or woman to enter the field and fight hand 
to hand with the threatened evil? You can never 
understand us, Charlie — you big, brave men. We 
honor you for the strength that gives us the victory, 
but we honor more those who are forced to lie by 
any active help they may not giA^e. If they have 
done what they could, we would not have them do 
more. They are more thoroughly heroes to bear 
with the brave spirit that carried them through the 
Avar, the enforced idleness, than though they fought 
every day and all day long Avith the ranks on the 
fields. They were men then, they are heroes now I’’ 

Her face Avas flushed in this little speech of hers 
for the defense of her sister women. 

Her listener, with her earnest face so near his 
own, caught himself Avondering how he could have 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


167 ' 


called her weak, or thought her sex less than the 
noblest of all God’s creation, and he caught himself 
thinking of her as he would not allow himself to 
think of her now he was a cripple, now he could no 
longer bring her back the life he would gladly 
have lain at her feet. He meant — always meant — 
to win this gild if it were in his power. She had 
been his ideal since he could remember. They were 
children together, and her childish spirit had even 
then strengthened and helped his spirit to be strong 
for the right. He had meant when he went away to 
the war, parting from her in the shady garden 
where all their lives had been spent— he had meant, 
when he should return from the wars with his soul 
proved to her, to tell her the desire that must always 
make life truer to him even should she say him nay. 
But he could not offer her a life like his, crippled, 
weakened, unworthy of her love as he had so fondly 
hoped he might be. Her words were sweet and ten- 
der and womanly, but what woman would willingly 
give herself to a cripple and a worn out soldier? She 
could talk of her soldiers, and her heroes, but she 
could never know what she was saying. He 
pulled his hands roughly, from under hers, and 
turned his face away that she should not guess how 
he was suffering. He would conquer this mad wish 
that was tugging at his heart to tell her, and have 
her sweet sympathy. He would fight this battle by 
himself, and she could not nurse him with her ten- 
derness as she had through the, other fight. She 
could sit there beside him, but never guess of his 
heart. He would never give her cause to suffer as 
he was suffering. She should live her life, and be 
free from his. He would not turn coward here on 
the very edge of this strange battle-field. He would 
live many years, doubtless, and so would she. But 
his life must be away from her life, and she would 
never know. He would go home when they would 
allow it, and he would make his life what he could, 
but her life would be always just beyond his reach, 
and she would never know, she would never guess. 
A sudden desperation possessed him to know how she 
would feel should she guess of what he was thinking. 


168 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


A sudden desire — almost a frenzy — took possession 
of him to face her and prove to her that he knew 
too well the hardness and the bitterness of the silent 
struggle where one had to sit down and do nothing 
while the fight went on, and the victory could never 
be for him. 

He clenched his hands in desperation, and turned 
his head upon the hard pillow. His face was set, 
and his eyes not the tender gray eyes Helen Travers 
had met with hers all her life. He faced her with 
this struggle stamped upon his face, and the hard- 
ness and the struggling suddenly ceased. 

The quivering, tender face, the eyes intense with 
their hidden soul, the sweet red mouth in its brave 
struggle to hide its own bitterness — all thesd met his 
sullen eyes, and forgetting all these brave resolu- 
tions, all the honest, manly feelings he had been try- 
ing to fill his heart with instead of the love he had 
longed for— and the two warm little hands were in 
his, held in almost a fierce grasp, the tender face 
was drawn suddenly nearer, forgetting all else save 
what he read in the face before him, and there came 
a sudden ending to all his bitter battle in swift de- 
feat by the tenderness of a woman. 

“My darling!’’ he breathed, rather than spoke, 
and Helen was ready to fight her struggle with 
death and sickness and all the harsh lines of her life 
in that dreary, sad hospital, filled with all that should 
fill life with sorrow, save and excepting this win- 
ning of the bravest heart she could care to win. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A STARTLING DEVELOPMENT. 

“I have such a strange letter here, I shall read it 
to you, Charlie, in order to make you glad you are to 
go home so shortly,” Helen said, sitting down beside 
her lover, the smile on her lips, but hiding the 
trouble in her heart. “It is such a strange— or 
rather the news it contains is so strange that I 
want your help in unraveling the mystery. For 
my part I cannot guess how such a terrible thing 


AT A OIBL'S MEHGY. 


169 


can have happened in our quiet little town, and the 
mstigator of the plot never found out.’’ She smiled 
into the eyes raised to hers, and gave the letter a 
slight shake, as though by so doins: she could shake 
from it the desired knowledge. “It is from Hilda, 
Charlie, and you know what a child she is to send 
one the nicest possible news? Well, the news she 
has in this letter inclines me to doubt our former be- 
lief in her cheering influences. But, there, you poor, 
curious fellow. I’ll keep you no longer in suspense 
unless I am called away during the reading of it. 
Now, prepare yourself for the strangest thing you 
can imagine, but believe me, dear,” a sudden trouble 
on her face, “it all comes out right. I would not let 
you know of it did it not.” 

^ “All this mystery but rouses my most intense de- 
sire to know of what you are talking, Helen,” her 
patient said, drawing her down beside him in her 
chair. “It is very trying to have to All one’s curi- 
osity with scanty snatches such as you are giving 
me. I am all attention; please begin reading at 
once. If you are called away I shall finish it my- 
self.” 

“Well,” and Helen laughed to hide the disappoint- 
ment she felt, “you will have to read it yourself, 
Charlie, dear, for the surgeon is beckoning me, and 
I know when he has that face on I am due for some 
time. Oh, this terrible war! If it would only end 1” 

“It will end in time, dear,” Charlie said, now turn- 
ing comforter for the sturdy heart flinching under 
its daily sorrowful sights. “I know how hard it is, 
Helen, dearest, but it will end soon.” 

He was trying to convince himself as well as her, 
and the girl knew it as she went from him, leaving 
the letter in his hands, to obey the call for her assist- 
ance. The wounded officer brought in for care was 
almost a hopeless case, but they would do what they 
could, the kindly surgeon said, as he and the gentle 
nurse bent over him, Iving insensible upon the rude 
pallet made up quickly at his orders. He was a 
strong man, Helen knew, and had fought long and 
well in the struggle, but the shell that had lost him 
an arm had cut so close to his life that they scarcely 


170 


AT A GIBES MERCY. 


held any hope of reviving him. All thought of her 
lover or the strange news she had received in her 
home letter had left her mind as she gave herself up 
utterly to the work before her. Here was another 
brave life to save, and in spite of the odds against 
them, if it lay in her power, she would bring him 
back to life. Such lives as this were well worth 
fighting for, and she would do her best. But her best 
— what could human power do when death had al- 
ready laid his touch upon a heart? 

Charlie Courtland, lying where she left him, fol- 
lowed her with his eyes as she passed down the row 
of cots like a quiet little queen of a sorrowful king- 
dom, and there grew into his eyes the look of one too 
full of thankfulness to be uttered, and it was for 
some minutes he lay so, forgetting utterly the letter 
lying in his hands. But his glance presently falling 
upon it, he took it up, and read with a growing in- 
terest and excitement what it contained : 

‘‘Dear Nell: — You are so busy over your poor 
wounded soldiers that you give us very little news, 
and only a teeny mite of letters, anyway. But we 
know, or can guess, of how full your hands are with 
this terrible war and the dreadful time that it brings, 
so we don’t expect you to write often; only you 
know we appreciate even the scraps we do get, you 
dear old sister, and we write accordingly to^you as 
often as we can, not even knowing that you will get 
our letters, the very mails are so uncertain. I have 
a great piece of ne'vvs for you, Helen, and guess as 
long as you can, you would not come near the truth, 
it is so strange, and might have turned out so dread- 
fully, and no one can find out to whom to lay the 
blame. You know how brave and enthusiastic Squire 
Courtland has been during this war, and how anx- 
ious he is to do what he can to end it. Well, Nell, 
you could never guess what has happened. It might 
have been so dreadful, and as it was it threw Mrs. 
Courtland into one of her terrible attacks of de- 
lirium, but she is better now, Nell, so you needn’t 
worry your dear little self over that. Be sure I 
wouldn’t tell you anything about this if all the dan- 


AT A GIRVS MERCY. 


171 


ger were not over, for you have enough to worry 
you without a lot of home troubles. Well, to begin 
a,t the beginning, and I always think of that sweet 
little Nan — Did you know she has gone, too, to the 
hospital down there, and I suppose knows nothing of 
this that I am going to tell you? Well, you know 
now, anyway, Nell, that our little sunny Nan is doing 
the very work you are at, and that she has longed 
so much to do, though during her mother’s illness 
she never mentioned it. But as soon as Mrs. Court- 
land — you don’t know how much paler and sweeter 
and frailer she looks, Nell — as soon as Mrs. Court- 
land recovered so as to be up in her chair, and grow- 
ing stronger every day, and gave her free consent 
with that of the squire — you know he would give his 
very heart if the war needed it, Nell — our little Nan 
went away to the hospital, where she heard they 
needed most the services of nurses, whether experi- 
enced or not. She said she could never go on any 
pretense of being an experienced nurse, and so she 
went there. It is farther down south than you are, 
Helen, though I cannot tell you just where ; but, no 
doubt. Nan herself will write and tell you all about 
it when she gets the time. And now to the story I 
started to tell you. You know how I go from one 
subject to another in my letters. Ned always said 
so, you remember. Dear old Ned! I would give 
anything to have him here this minute, and 3mu, 
too, Nell. Well, it seems — but I don’t dare even to 
write it in a letter — the squire was to a certain ex- 
tent against the dreadful riot there was in the city, 
and in some way they found this out, and tried to 
revenge themselves. He found out what they were 
going to do long before they had struck a blow, and 
was prepared to defend the city with the rest of 
those who were aware of the danger, though some 
laughed the danger to scorn, saying the mob would 
never dare revenge itself for the drafting of the 
men. But they did. Some people don’t know every- 
thing, if they think they do. And so one day they 
broke into riot. The papers were full of it. It lasted 
some time, but Squire Courtland was in the midst of 
the militia, and they had the mob quiet by and by, 


172 


AT A OIBVS IIEBCr, 


though it was a dreadful time. Every man who 
could helped defend the city, and they did it bravely, 
though the defense was weakened because some of 
the force had been called away. Well, it seems that 
since then these dreadful men found out the squire 
had considerable to do with their defeat, though 
who told them no one seems to know, and they made 
up their minds to revenge themselves on him. Oh, 
it was dreadful, Nell, and for a time we thought they 
would surely win. They took the most cowardly 
way of doing this, too. Of course they would do 
nothing else. Such cowards take some sneaking 
way of ‘getting even’ with any one they think is 
doing them an injury. And they got up here one 
night, a whole body of them, and set the dear old 
Hall on fire, and, oh, Nell, it was a terrible time. At 
first they thought there could be nothing saved, it 
did burn so, but finally they got the fire under con- 
trol, and put it out without injuring much of any- 
thing. Every one — excepting the cowards, of course 
— was so glad, the old Hall seems so a part of the 
place, and there was no one hurt, only, as I said, the 
excitement threw Mrs. Courtland into those dread- 
ful fits of delirium such as she had after the bur- 
glary. And the old Hall looks natural as e\ er, ex- 
cepting the blackened corners where the fire started, 
and where it leaped up the walls. You cannot 
imagine what a terrible sight it was, and how every 
one turned out to help put it out. There is not a soul 
anywhere around here who doesn’t just love the old 
Hall and its master and mistress. So they did what 
they could, and they saved the place, and there is 
only little damage done. But we are all excited, of 
course, to find out who was the instigator of the 
deed. Some think it was some of those government 
fellows— excuse the liberty, Nell, of this dreadful 
expression, but I don’t know what else to say — told 
about the squire, and in some way this mob heard of 
it. We’re all so glad there was nothing worse. And 
there you are away off in the midst of the war, and 
there is Nan, and Ned gone, and nobody home to de- 
fend us but we to defend each other. Oh, Nell, will 
the terrible war never stop and let us have the dear 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


173 


old times back again — only we can never have the 
same old friends — all of them — and will you never 
be here again, Helen Travers, to comfort your poor 
lonely little mother and sister, Hilda?’’ 

So the letter ended, and Charlie laid it down, his 
thoughts in a tumult ; so much of mystery about it, 
and no one to explain it to him. It was with more 
impatience than he had shown in many days that he 
awaited Helen’s approach. 

“I thought you were never coming,” he said, 
when at last she came to him, but the sadness of her 
face checked any impatient words he would have 
said, and he simply reached out to take her hand 
and draw her down beside him to comfort her. 

“I could not come any sooner, Charlie,” she said, 
trying to keep her voice steady, though the deep 
sorrow in her eyes betrayed how deeply she was 
touched. “The poor fellow died not ten minutes 

ago, and his face was so brave ” She paused to 

regain her courage, for she would not let her own 
sorrow trouble in the least this lover of hers, whose 
own cup was quite full enough. “I believe I will 
never be truly brave, Charlie,” she said presently, 
letting her trembling hands lie in his for strength, 
the drooping lids raised to search the kindly eyes op- 
posite for their assurance of trust that she knew 
would not fail her. “These sad scenes set me away 
back so, just when I think I am the very bravest 
creature in the world.” She laughed, but it was 
brokenly, and loosened one of her hands to push the 
tumbled hair from her forehead. “You have read 
the letter, I see, dear. It is a sad letter, but it might 
have been so much worse. It isn’t half so bad as 
that other trouble that fell on them before I left 
home. You remember about the thieves? It was the 
most daring piece of burglary I ever heard of.” 

“Wait,” Charlie said. “I haven’t the least idea 
of what you are talking, Helen. What burglary, and 
how long has my mother been ill?” 

She met his questioning look with one of astonish- 
ment. Then the color came slowly back to her face, 


174 


AT A OIRrS MERCY. 


and left it warm and rosy. She hesitated for a mo- 
ment, and then said, quietly : 

“I thought you knew all about it, Charlie, or I 
would never have let you read this letter. I thought 
you knew about everything excepting this last 
trouble that has come, and that of course I was sure 
you had not heard. I wouldn’t have let you read it 
for the world!” she added, with sudden vehemence, 
“not for the world, Charlie! It may have done you 
a great deal of harm already, and I can never for- 
give myself if it has. What a silly thing I was to 
give it to you, anyway.” 

He stopped the swift words with a kindly nod. 
He smoothed the gentle hands he held, and smiled 
gravely to comfort her. 

“It has done me not the slightest harm,” he said, 
quietly, “and you need have no such thought, 
dearest. I think I would have never forgiven you if 
you hadn’t told me of it while I was with you to 
have your comfort. ” 

It was sweet to have his comfort. It was sweet to 
know that she could be sure always of this comfort, 
no matter how hard and sad the wurld might be to 
her so many times. It was good to be sure she could 
tell him of any of her sorrows and feel this tender 
touch on her hands, and the tender gravity of the 
gray eyes meeting her own. Her heart was com- 
forted, even coming as she had from the presence of 
death, and she smiled tearfully, proving her 
woman’s heart still too tender to bear all the sorrow 
of the war without a trial. 

“I shall tell you all about it then,” she said, and 
now she smiled, and the smile was very sweet and 
tender. “I thought, indeed, that you knew or I 
would not have let you know, but now I shall tell 
you all about it, for it would be cruel to let you go 
home without being prepared for what you must 
meet, only I did not know our dear little ISTan had 
joined the ranks, Charlie. But I knew she would 
as soon as ever she could, her heart w’as so bent on 
going, and she is so well fitted for it in spite of her 
apparently care free life, Her sunny face and sweet 
ways will cheer many a sufferer, as a graver woman 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


175 


could never do, and she will be as brave as any 
other woman, and come from the trial sweeter and 
truer even than she is now. I have perfect faith in 
my Nan, you see, Charlie.’’ 

“And oh, I know of another little woman in whom 
I have the greatest faith,” whispered a merry voice 
at her ear. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE COILS OF THE SERPENT. 

Howard Blake went back through the clover on 
the slope, crushing them down with careless feet, so 
occupied with his wrathful thoughts as never to 
think of the damage he was doing to his clover, too 
furious at this ending to his plans of revenge upon 
Nan and her father because of the patriotism that 
held them aloof from him, and made the girl scorn 
him with words that burned deep in his heart, 
though he might laugh at them as he would while 
in her presence, and that had sent her away to the 
fields where she was for the time beyond his power, 
for he did not even know where she had gone. He 
had been laying his plans and strengthening his 
hold upon her for so long, feeling: so sure of his 
easy victory now that those who would defend them 
were gone, and especially the captain, whom, it 
might be, he feared more than any other, because 
he was so sure he knew of his design upon the girl 
whose father he had tried to hold in his power for 
her undoing. He had worked his plans well, and 
up to that moment he had been sure of the girl. 
Now she had escaped him, going, as she had, to the 
camp where it might be she would thwart his well 
conceived planning, and prove her strength lay in 
her weakness after all. 

“But I will win!” he muttered, between clenched 
teeth, as he strode on, his black brows meeting in a 
heavy frown, the sinister light in the black eyes, a 
cruel curve to the lips under the drooping, mustache. 
“I will win in the end, and then, my sweet girl, you 
shall feel to the full extent my power over you and 


176 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


yours. You scorn me because I will not lay my life 
open to the bullet and the bayonet. You shall see, 
my pretty maid, that there are other causes to fight 
for, and other victories to win. You shall feel that 
Howard Blake, scorn him as you will, with your 
proud head raised as though you of the Hall were 
the only blue bloods in the country— you shall feel 
that those whom you scorn can lower your proud 
head, and your father’s, to the dust. I shall stand 
back for nothing now. I might have spared you 
some of the pain I can inflict, but now I shall stop 
at nothing that will win you. You shall acknowl- 
edge that Howard Blake has the winning power in 
spite of all the pride of the Courtlands of the Hall.’’ 

He ground his teeth, and his eyes were like a 
snake’s in their fury and cunning. He was capable 
of almost anything to carry out his scheme. His 
plans were forming even then, disconcerted as he 
had been at Nan’s departure, and he would plant 
them for th.3 reaping of his gain ere mafiy months 
should pass. Let the war go on, as he said, he would 
carry his victory single handed and with no weap- 
ons but his fertile brain and his hope of revenge. 
And he could be cruel to the utmost when he would 
win, if nothing else would bring the victory. He 
would prove to this girl that his threats were not the 
vain utterances of an angry lover. He would bring 
her to humbly acknowledge his power, and then his 
vengeance would be complete. Then he would sue 
for her hand, and not sue in vain. Then she would 
answer with more grace than she had the other day 
at his words of wooing. He was capable of almost 
anything to win her, but he would win. 

“I have more than one wire to pull,” he muttered, 
his pale face darkening with triumph. “I have 
more than one hold upon you and your father, 
Miss Nan, and if one fails, there are still the 
others. I have no mercy for you now. I might have 
had, for you were sweet and dainty as my wife 
should be, and you can be gracious if you choose. 
But you chose to scorn me for your dead lover, ha ! 
ha ! and you shall now feel my scorn that has no 
mercy. When I have brought your proud head low, 


AT A QIItL'S MERCY. I77 

I may prove to you that the love of a man like my- 
self IS capable of carrying out any plan for the win- 
ning of his wooing, and you will regret every scorn- 
ful word you have uttered to me, not only now, but 
the many bitter words and actions of your past life 
when we were children together, and you would 
prove your hatred of me by your wide eyes and 
curved red lips as you clung to your boy lover. Bah, 
what a lover he was ! You shall feel the power of 
another sort of lover, Nan Courtland, and acknowl- 
edge that I am as proud as you and as well able to 
win in the fight for a wife as Captain Travers could 
ever be.’’ 

^ He laughed again, showing the white teeth in that 
sinister smile of his, the glittering eyes under the 
black brows flashing with an evil light that little 
Nan should have feared were it not that her inno- 
cence and her ignorance of his planning left her 
free to go her way with no fear of harm, though she 
knew that this man was capable of proving himself 
as thorough a villain as any. 

His hope of holding the amount her father owed 
him over her to bring her to his terms had fallen 
tlpough. The squire had paid the amount down at 
his first demand, uttering no word of how much it 
had cramped him to do so, and he must use the next 
means he had planned to gain his footing above 
them. He had worked some of his plans to perfec- 
tion ; what reason was there for his not proving as 
successful in all he should attempt? If he should 
prove that there was no such word as fail in his vo- 
cabulary, would Nan Courtland still hold him a 
coward? Would any one dare meet him face to face, 
and tell him he was not a man that he did not enter 
the battle lists? Was he not fighting his own battle 
at home with the certainty of victory? Was Nan 
Courtland, in her new role of nurse to the suffering 
soldiers, any more freed from his grasp than Nan 
Courtland, the dainty daughter of the Hall? Could 
he not follow her wherever she be, and still make 
her feel the power of his hatred of her, still make 
her understand that he was not the coward she had 
taunted him with being? Nan Courtland, the dainty 


178 


AT A OIBL'S 3IEECY. 


nurse of the battle-field, should be more in his power 
than she ever could be under the care of those who 
loved her in the quiet old town among her fiowers 
in the old Hall garden. He would prove it and hold 
it true. He trod many a full blossomed clover under 
his feet as he walked the southern slope that day, and 
the men under him felt the power of his wrath as 
they had felt it many a time before, though never 
with so constant a pressure. His horse was stung 
with madness at the sharp lash upon his fianks when 
his master rode through the town that afternoon. 
His dog cowed under the blow of his foot as he fol- 
lowed at his heels with canine affection. It was a 
cruel day for every one and everything in Howard 
Blake^s power, and even Nan, so many miles away, 
would feel it pre«ently. Not for herself at first it 
might be, but the blow would fall upon her by and 
by in worse than a selfish touch. She would know 
the sorrow upon those she loved^ and be unable to 
help them even by her presence, and she would real- 
ize that the serpent had indeed entered her Eden, 
where the innoccJiice and happiness of childhood were 
giving place to the sadness and the bitterness and 
the knowledge of evil that were coming to her with 
her grace of womanhood. Told as Hilda told it in 
her letter to her sister, the cruel blow in the dark 
at the squire through the madness of the rabble 
from the ranks of the rioters, seeking to destroy the 
grand old Hall, and the master with it, touching 
with their coward torch the very heart of the 
squire’s pride at a whisper from the man who would 
lower every vestige of this pride, and lower the 
proud spirit of the daughter who had spent her life 
among the shadows and the sunbeams there, they 
struck with the cowardice and wild fury of revenge, 
and they were disappointed ; but they were not dis- 
couraged with such a hidden leader working for 
them in the darkness of secrecy. For they had 
never gained a glimpse of the man who was helping 
them on in their vengeance, not gained a clew of 
whom it might be. But they worked in the blind 
madness that characterizes such brutes, and they 
might have won that night but for the discovery of 


AT A GIRL'S 3IERCr. 


179 


their scheme and the capture of one of their men. 
But the man who was leading them on to their re- 
venge and his own ends seemed never to be dis- 
couraged by any failures. He set them on the track 
of the squire, as the blow to harm him through other 
means failed, and they dogged his footsteps through 
the city and even up in the quietness of the country 
town, watching and waiting for the chance to come 
that would give them the blow in the dark. He was 
never disheartened and never discouraged at the 
halting victory he was fighting for, and poor little 
Nan, doing her sweet work of charity among the 
stricken men in the camps of the wounded, could 
not know of the evil lurking at her very doors to 
strike for her heart when the chance should offer. 
She was a tender nurse. That she knew nothing of 
nursing and simply followed the orders of those 
under whom she worked was nothing to her dis- 
credit. Her hands were willing and her heart ten- 
der, though the red mouth quivered many a time as 
she bent over the tense form of some of the sufferers 
brought in from the field. That her heart was sore, 
and her soul sick within her at so much suffering, 
no one knew, though the older nurses guessed it from 
the daily deepening sweetness of the tender face 
and the paling of the warm coloring of the dimpled 
cheeks that showed no trace of tears. But she held 
her heart under her control, and did her work with 
the willingness, if not all the bravery, of her friend 
in the hospitals nearer home. And the men loved 
her as they must love her for her angel face and her 
dainty patience, the touch of her fingers like the 
light touch of hope upon their seamed and aching 
brows, the soft low voice like the echo of the mother 
voices back in the old days of childhood when this 
bitterness of battle had not entered its dart in their 
hearts and their lives. She herself was like the 
glimpse into heaven to the weary, battle-sore men 
as she passed between their cots with tender thought 
for each and all, and the smile that was like sun- 
shine in the darkness of the dreary place. She real- 
ized more and more every day what a cruel thing 
war was as she took up her duties and carried the 


180 


AT A GI2irS MERCY. 


lives through their struggle, or gave them tender 
memories of what a woman’s hand can do to soften 
the trial of death, but her heart — how could they 
know of the sorrow in her own heart as she smiled 
her sunniest and her words were the bravest, her 
hands light upon theirs Lo soften the pain of their 
sufferings? How could they know that for her all 
hope to come with the end of the war was at an 
end? Only life’s sunshine was for such as her, 
they said among themselves, and there was only the 
wish that sunshine should be forever over her life in 
their hearts as they said it. That theirs were dark- 
ened with pain was but cause fcr her tenderness 
over them, and they could bear their pain more 
bravely with the frank eyes upon them and the 
touch of the light fingers over theirs. Her nursing 
might not go far toward bringing them back to 
health, but her presence was like the brightening of 
a dark sky, and gave them hope of sunny weather 
when the darkness should be past. The surgeons 
were her friends, the nurses loved her. There was 
that of womanly tenderness under the proud grace 
of her manner that dislikes or distrusts could not 
enter where she was. There was not a map among 
them, bearing their sufferings bravely as they did, 
but would have gladly laid down his life for the 
bringing of more happiness into her own. There 
was not a woman there but would have been willing 
to lose much of her own gladness — should there ever 
come gladness again in her life— to have brought 
more i3rightness into that of the tender woman, so 
like a child in her tiny form and her frank face, 
with its short sunny curls over the small proud head, 
and the slender hands, so pure and white, bearing 
no mark of the roughness of life. 

‘T can’t help looking at you. Miss Courtland,” one 
of her patients said to her one day, stopping her as 
she was passing his cot, reaching out his one strong 
hand, the other — ah, well, he had given the other to 
his country, and would have given more had it been 
necessary — “you look so much like a young fellow 
that fought in our ranks one day down yonder,” a 
nod of his head toward the bitter fields toward the 


AT A GlUrs 3IEBCY. 


181 


south, where more than one fierce battle had been 
fought. “He had your eyes, with the smile always 
in 'em, and your hair, though it wasn't so soft and 
so long ; and there was the same sunniness about 
him somehow as there is about you. I hope you won’t 
mind my speaking about it, but I have been puzzling 
my brains, lying here, trying to discover whom you 
did remind me of, and it came to me just now like a 
streak of light that it was that young fellow, 
though I don’t know, and never did know his 
name.” 

Nan paused willingly now, her fair face fiushing 
with delight, her eyes full of the smiling the man 
had so described, the lips trembling with the sud- 
den hope that now she had met some one who could 
tell her of Frank — for that it was Frank whom the 
soldier meant, she had not a doubt— and she had 
never heard from this dearest of her brothers, this 
best beloved because so sunny-hearted, always so 
ready to enter into her spirit of madcap pleasure, 
when graver Charlie would have stopped to think. 
Her heart had been so sore because of the silence of 
this brother that now the faint ray of hope that she 
should hear something of him, even if but a crumb 
of comfort, made her heart quicken its beating and 
her face alight with hope. This soldier of hers had 
been through the thickest of the fight, and must 
know if her Frank, her bonny, blue-eyed brother, 
were still to come to her when this dreadful war 
should be over. From Charlie she had heard, but 
from Frank not a word since the day she bade Helen 
adieu in the shadowy old Hall with the silence of 
death brooding over it. 

“Tell me about him. Corporal Brown,” she said, 
and her voice was low and winning, the light upon 
her face proving the light in her heart. “I think 
you must mean my brother. We have the same hair 
and eyes, they say, and he was the dearest, sunni- 
est tempered fellow in the world, and I’m just sure 
no one else could be quite like him.” She sat down 
beside the man, brushing as she did so the dark hair 
that clung to the damp forehead where the heat and 
the suffering were doing their best to weaken a 


182 


AT A OIRVS MERCY. 


strong man’s body and heart. ^‘I’m just sure you 
mean my brother, and, of course, it will be good for 
me to hear of him from some one who has been with 
him in the fight. I haven’t heard from him in, oh, 
such a long, weary time, that it will seem grand 
news even to gather the little you may know. I am 
so proud of my brothers. Corporal Brown, as well as 
my brothers who are mine only by their brave fight 
for my country. ” 

How softly she could utter these tender words 
that made so much easier the pain the men were 
bearing. Let one set their faces and steel their 
hearts against the sin of flattery as they will, there 
is still the touch of an angel’s voice in the lips that 
utter tender words of cheer and comfort as Nan was 
doing. It was sincere flattery, and it came from 
her heart. Who could withstand such? Not the 
strong man lying before her, made weak through 
the struggle he had made for her and her country, 
called as she had just said, her brother ' for his bra- 
very. The strong face, seamed and scarred by the 
hard struggle with hunger and suffering, lighted 
and deepened with a glow of the first pride he had 
shown since he entered the camp, as he said, gently 
as she could have said it : 

“Your words make the suffering light, nurse. 
You would do to be a general, for not a man could 
refuse to charge the toughest battery with every 
odds against him, with you at his head and your 
words in his heart. I’ll tell you, indeed, all that I 
know of this young fellow, though it isn’t much. 
For your sake as well as my own I wish it< were 
more. But we were together not for many hours, any- 
way, and then the toughest battle was on the eve of 
of breaking upon us, and those things make a fellow 
sort of hungry for cheerful words, and the laughter 
that can lighten the heaviest heart, no matter how 
tough a battle may be upon one on the morrow. We 
were at Fortress Monroe, and the Confederate gun- 
boat was not far from us up the river, and the gen- 
eral had given us our words of cheer in camp that 
morning, when a boat load of those poor fugitives, 
that seem to have no fear even of the blood- 


AT A GlliL’S MERCY. 183 

hounds in their hurry to get away from the South 
and up to the North, came down the river al- 
most into our camp. We were on the look out for 
most anything at that time, and, of course, we 
were careful how we took even such poor beggars 
in, but we were ordered out to capture them — for, of 
course, we could not let them pass— and it proved to 
be the strangest set of fugitives I ever came across. 
There were several women among them, dressed iii 
the garments of men, and if ever }mu saw a more 
beaten out set of people Td like to know it. It 
seems there was a girl among them who was the 
sweetheart 5f one of the men, and she was running 
away with him up to ‘Linkum,’ as they all were, so 
sure of his help, and she had brought with her some 
other women, and the general found out about 
them, and that night what did he do but give ’em as 
jolly a wedding as the proudest pair could desire, 
there on the very eve of that terrible battle. And 
this young fellow of whom I spoke, he just entered 
heart and soul into the thing, and got up a spread 
for the bridal party, and we gave them music, and 
had dancing and a regular wedding time, as though 
there were not the hardest fight of the war— almost 
—to come on the morrow. But that’s what we all 
liked in this fellow. He never seemed to worry about 
what.might come on the morrow, he just went in, 
and gave us all as jolly a time and as free from care 
a night as any wedding couple could have asked for 
at the time. And at the end of it, what did he do 
but up and pass the hat around among us, and there 
were the officers and their ladies there, and a regular 
swell time it was, indeed, and he did it as though it 
were a matter of course that we should help in any 
way we could this newly married pair who were to 
start on their tour nn the morrow — that’s how he 
put it — and as though many of those there did not 
know they were likely to start on an altogether dif- 
ferent journey themselves on the morrow. But it was 
his way, and that’s why we all liked him. Even the 
general himself gave toward the donation, and if 
ever a couple had a turn out that couple of runaway 
slaves had, They were the only ones allowed to go, 


184 AT A GIRUS MEBGT. 

for they were free, and held in slavery only by some 
sort of "treachery — as hundreds of them were— and 
the others we had to keep. But this fellow was the 
image of you, with his sunny eyes and smile, and the 
curls all over his head, and the general even 
couldn’t help giving in to him when he wanted the 
dancing for the good luck of the wedding party. He 
gave in to him as he’d give in to you if you were to 
ask him something pretty hard, I am sure, Nurse 
Courtland. You don’t believe it, but try him and 
see.” 

Nan laughed happily, though there was a mist be- 
fore those same sunny eyes, as she would have an- 
swered the soldier’s last words had not one of the 
women come up to her at that moment, a paper, dis- 
colored and ragged from much travel and wear, in 
her hand, a kindly interest on her face. 

“I wonder if you know this man, nurse,” she said, 
gently, the Kindness in her eyes touching the girl’s 
heart. “I happened across the account, and wished 
you to see it. The paper was sent here to this camp 
a few days ago, but we have 'had no time for read- 
ing the news here,” a tender smile on her face. “It 
is seldom we get hold of papers, anyway, and this 
must have been sent here by some friend knowing 
of your presence among us, for it has a blue mark 
around the heading.” 

In her heart she thought it anything but a friend 
who would send such a notice, if "it were for Nan, to 
the girl at such a time, but she herself had nothing 
to do with it, and would simply learn if her belief in 
its being for the girl were groundless. 

Nan took the paper with slowly dawning interest, 
her thoughts so filled with the account she had just 
heard of her brother— she was so sure it was her 
brother— that she scarcely realized what the woman 
had said to her. She glanced aimlessly down the 
columns in search of the blue mark around the head- 
ing of the article, and then suddenly her sweet face 
blanched as though the touch of death were upon 
her, and the life and light went out of her face as 
she stood as one turned to stone before hor kindly 
companion. The woman’s heart was deeply touched. 


AT A QmVS MERCY. 185 

She would never have spoken to the girl of this had 
she known It would affect her, for the girl was so 
brave for others she was sure it must be a severe 
blow that would so affect her for herself. 

1 • A? she began, laying her hand 

land^ tliS “I am so sorry. Nurse Court- 

Nmi looked at her and smiled her stony, set smile 
as though she must smile, though her heart were 
breaking. She met the other’s kindly gaze with her 
steady blue eyes, as though to prove' her heart un- 
hurt though there was a strained look about them 
fhat hurt those watching her sorely. 

‘‘It is nothing— much,’ ' she said, erravely, trying 
^ keep her voice steady. “It is nothing— much 
Only my father— has been taken by the Southern 
Government, and held— as a spy!” 

Then lier face changed, and the pallor gave place 
to a purplish hue as she caught her breath as though 
she were strangling. 

I know who has done it,” she cried, her sweet 
voice strained with sudden agony. “I know who has 
done it. There is only one man in the whole world 
would have betrayed mv father.” 

And then, swaying 'suddenly, she would have 
fallen had not the woman caught her in her arms. 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE STEANGENESS OF FATE. 

There was sorrow through the wards when the 
news of the gentle nurse’s trouble was known, and 
many a manly heart throbbed with the desi^ to 
help her if it were possible, feeling its utter inability 
to do aught but prove their sympathy by bearing 
with braver hearts their own suffering, and giving 
her smiles instead of the grumbling she had listened 
to many a time when the waiting for the leave to go 
home or the leave to return to the field was so 
long. There were kindly words for her on every 
side, and smiling lips meeting her quiet face, 
grown so grave and sad in spite of its brave en- 


186 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


deavor to put self aside among these brave soldiers 
suffering their pain in mute willingness to add noth- 
ing to her heaviness of heart. There was many a 
hand reached out to touch hers in silent sympathy as 
she passed down between the cots, the light some- 
how gone from the sunny face that had carried so 
many minutes of brightness to the hearts there. And 
this sympathy was very sweet to the girl, though 
there was little she said in regard to her inner 
thoughts, for she did not go there, she said once, 
when questioned as to how she could so bravely bear 
the blow upon her — she did not go there to wear her 
own sorrows on her sleeve, but to help lessen the 
sufferings of others. And why should she be telling 
of her sorrow when all knew of it, and to talk of it 
could do no good? But what she suffered no one 
knew. Her heart was so tender for the home 
friends and the life that had been so sadly broken in 
upon by this terrible war. How she longed for the 
quiet old Hall and the fragrant garden with its 
flowers, many and many a time, no one knew. How 
her heart went out in its wild longing to be with 
those who needed her care and all her tenderness 
now. How she cried out against the fate that shut 
down so strangely upon her, keeping her here — for 
she would not leave — among the sufferers from the 
cruelty of war, when her own father was suffering 
from the same cause, under such far different 
circumstances— and her mother— what of her? 
That there were friends there she knew, but it 
was not like the home faces after all, and to know 
absolutely nothing of those who were out in the 
field and camp would bear her heart down until 
it must nearly break from the strain. How could 
she stand it to remain there in the hospital among 
those who were suffering, it was true, but who 
were not her very own, after all? How could 
she remain there, giving them the care and the 
tenderness she should give those nearer and 
dearer? How could she do nothing when there 
surely was something she could do? But she knew 
nothing of what she ought to do. How could she 
help her father in his sore need? How could she 


AT A OIRVS 3IERCY. 


187 


save him from what would come to him, though she 
knew not what that might be? What was it they 
did to spies? — though she scorned to think of that 
term in regard to her father. He was no spy ; he was 
simply using his eyes and ears for the good of their 
cause, and what man with a heart for the right, but 
would do the same? These enemies of theirs used 
such strange means to gain their ends ! Her father 
was no spy, and he was as noble as any of those 
who sought to wrong him. If it were that cowardly 
Howard Blake who was doing this thing — as she 
began to firmly believe in her first thought of him — 
then he were in truth putting his threat to the proof 
and setting his vengeance up so high for her sorrow- 
ing that she could have no hope to outwit him. But 
she would not despair. If there were nothing she 
could do she could at least give her life and her 
care for these soldiers fighting in the same cause 
with her father, though they were in the field, and 
he was shut off in the home ranks. If there were 
only something she could do for him, something she 
could do to free him from the wrong laid upon him, 
from the bonds he was laid under. If there were 
anything she could do for him surely she could find 
it, surely there would never be such a cruel fate as 
to leave her in ignorance of it until too late. But 
what could she do, and what was it she would de- 
fend her father from? Her brain was of no use 
lately. She smiled dully, thinking this, and ran her 
fingers slowly through the curls of her head. What 
was it they did to spies when taken by the enemy? 
Was it the chains and the imprisonment that would 
wear out, after awhile, even the brave spirit of her 
father? Or was there something else they did? She 
wished she could remember what it was they did to 
spies. She would ask some of these men who were 
so good to her, but she could not bring herself to 
speak to even them about it just yet. And yet if she 
would do anything she must do it at once. Would 
not the surgeon do his best for her, and give her the 
experience that had come to him through these ter- 
rible months suffering and seeing the suffering of 
others? Was he not one of the kindest of men, and 


188 


AT A OIRL’S 3IERGr. 


would he not do for her as he would for himself 
were he placed in such a dreadful position as she 
was? He would be kind to her, anyway, though any 
of those she might go to would be the same. He 
would give her, maybe, the comfort she so needed, 
and coming from him, she would be sure there was 
comfort for her. 

But she had no time just then. There was so much 
of this terrible work to be done that she must put 
her own thoughts away and hide her heart for the 
caring for these others who were giving their lives 
for the cause her father was in. She must smile and 
say her kindly words as though her heart were not 
breaking with the trouble and the worry and lack of 
knowledge of what might come to her during that 
terrible time. She must give of her kindest thoughts 
when she had no comfort for herself. 

But by and by, when there came a chance, when 
the sufferings were cared for, and the time was 
coming for the gentle nurse to give up her place for 
the night, Nan stood beside the surgeon, doing her 
last little offices of kindness and smiling her cheer- 
iest, trying so hard to put down her heart and her 
selfish sorrow, waiting for the opportunity for her to 
ask of him what she could not ask even of those who 
were her kindest friends, and would have given 
their lives— any one of them— for her happiness. 
There were always so many little last things to do, 
she thought, as she went with him from one cot to 
the other, her dainty form and yellow curls draw- 
ing a smile from many a pain-drawn mouth, as 
kindly eyes followed her down the long rows of cots 
and kindly hearts ached for the sadness of the lips 
so clearly made for smiling. It seemed to her that 
they would never be through this round of duty, 
that they would never come to the end of this, so 
that she might know the end of what she feared. It 
was so hard to wait, it was so much harder to wait 
than to bear even the hardest knowledge of cer- 
tainty. She could not bear it, she said, to herself 
over and over, as she smiled and uttered her soft lit- 
tle words of comfort— she could not bear it much 
longer. She could not go about her duties another 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


189 


day and not know what might fall upon her at any 
time. He was kindly, this man at her side, and he 
would tell her as no one else could just what she 
should do for the help of her father. She was sure 
she could trust him. She could not be misled by 
the kindly mouth and the searching eyes when she 
had seen day after day his kindness and thoughtful- 
ness of those coming under his care. He was a fa- 
ther himself, she knew, for he had told her consider- 
able of himself as they worked or sat together, the 
man so tall and strong and broad shouldered, the lit- 
tle lady so small and dimpled and sweet. He could 
not but be kind to her when he should know what 
was done to her father, and he would devise some 
manner for her to release him if there should be 
such a hope. She was beginning to think there 
was no hope for her any more, there had so much of 
sadness come into her life with the passing months. 
The summer had brought her nothing but pain, and 
here was the winter coming on, and she was so sorry, 
for there would be more horrible suffering than she 
would dare to think of. 

But there must come an 'end to all things, even the 
hardest to bear, and so there came an end to Nan’s 
waiting, and she stood out in the open air with the 
cool winds lifting the soft curls from her pale face 
as she lifted her frank eyes to the face of her friend, 
and asked her faltering question that she could 
scarcely gain courage to ask, the answer might be 
so terrible. But it was out at last, and she was wait- 
ing for the answer. 

“^ou poor child,” the surgeon said, and the eyes, 
that had been so steady even when he knew he was 
using that terrible knife for the good of the sufferer, 
were not so steady now, for he could not meet un- 
flinchingly the wistful, wide eyes, the hue of the 
bluest October sky there had ever been, and the lips 
were trying to be so brave to answer should there 
be need for their answering. “You poor, tired out, 
hurt little girl. If you were my daughter, in spite 
of the brightness of having you here to comfort my 
soldiers, I would pack you off this minute to the 
home care and the home love that you are starving 


190 


AT A GIBUS MERCY, 


for. I know you are brave and unselfish and willing 
to give your very life for these brave boys, but you 
must not do this, Miss Nan, because it truly is not 
necessary, and I could not bear to think that I had 
given these little white fingers work that they should 
never touch, nor the tender heart a needless load 
of sorrow when there is enough sadness in the world 
for us to wish to keep such a sunny child as you free 
from care.’’ 

“But I came of my own free will,” said the grave, 
low voice, “and I will not be sent back, doctor. Only 
I want you to help me, and if you cannot, or will 
not, I must go to some one else. Even if there is 
need of the knife, I shall not flinch, so you need not 
hesitate to tell mo.” 

She laughed to keep up the cheerfulness of her 
words, but there was a faintness about the sound 
that smote the kindly heart of the man beside her. 

He laid his hand gently on her shoulder — she came 
scarcely up to his shoulder — as he said, gravely, no 
hesitation in his quiet voice, for he had tested the 
bravery of this frail girl, and knew she would bear 
even the knife, as she had said : 

“There is trouble enough in the world, little girl, 
for me to wish to keep you free from its touch, but if 
you have come to me for help and not comfort, I 
shall tell you the truth, as I am sure you wish me to 
do, if I do have to use the knife to cut away the 
hurt.” He laughed, too, but there was no more 
mirth in his attempt than in hers, only a tender ring: 
of sadness and a touch of the purest pity for this 
sweet woman standing out so bravely against the 
battle of her life. “You ask me what they do with 
spies. I must tell you that they set a strict watch 
upon such men, and when they have one in their 
power there is honestly little hope for him. They 
shoot them, little girl, as they should be shot them- 
selves, for making it necessary for me to tell you 
this. Why do you want to know?” 

She had not told him the worst of her story. She 
had come to him for an answer, and she feared if he 
knew the reason for her asking he would not tell 
her quite all that she must know to be prepared for 


AT A OmrS MERCY. 191 

what must come and what she musfc do. But there 
was scarcely need for him to ask when he saw the 
pallor touch swiftly all the life from her face and 
the eyes deepen with the terror of the knowledge 
bhe had said she must know if it should be as kindly 
cruel as the knife in their work among the soldiers, 
and now that she found that it was the knife that 
had been used, she wondered if the men, lying 
under it when they were brought in to be helped 
suffered the pain that she was sufferingl She ut- 
tered no word ; she simply laid her hand unsteadily 
tor a moment upon the arm of this strong friend, 
and searched his face, bent tenderly above her, for 
any hope of a lighter sentence than this that she 
had brought upon herself when she said she must 
know. 

‘‘You poor little woman!’’ said the kindly voice of 
this friend. “You poor, brave little woman. Miss 
Nan. If there is anything that I can do for you, 
you must tell me at once. I know of nothing I 
would not do for you to ease for one moment the 
pain you are under. Tell me what it is, and who 
knows but I can do something to help you?” 

He patted softly with his large, gentle hand the 
tiny hand resting for strength upon his arm, and 
steadied her weak steps as she faltered for a mo- 
ment where she stood in the intensity of her suffer- 
ing, and looked to him for the comfort he could not 
give her. 

“And is there nothing I can do?” she asked pres- 
ently, fighting so hard for the mastery of this new 
trouble that was laid upon her. “Isn’t there some- 
thing I can do for him, something any one would do 
or could do, no matter how hard it might be? It is 
for my father I ask. Surgeon McAllister. They can- 
not call him a coward, but they try to prove him 
such. There isn’t a cowardly drop of blood in one 
of the Courtlands, women or men, and my father is 
no spy, and he shall not die for it. There must be 
something that I can do, and I will do it — you must 
help me do it.” 

He still stroked, as tenderly as she had so many 
times stroked the hands of others, the soft white 


192 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


hand upon his arm, his kindly face troubled by the 
pain in the one lifted to his. 

“There is no dishonor in being a spy, Miss Nan/’ 
he said presently, “jlhere is no dishonor in being 
that. It is only a traitorous spy that one need fear. 
All armies must have spies in their midst, and it is 
as necessary a position as that of any other. You 
must not feel that your father is dishonored because 
he was taken for that, my girl. If he is no traitor — 
and there is, indeed, no need to ask such a thing — 
there is no reason why you should feel as you do 
about that, only we must think of some way to get 
him from their hands, and so save his life for more 
of the brave work, I am sure he is doing, knowing 
you as I do. We will walk down here along the 
walls, Miss Nan, and you can recover your strength 
while we plan for some way to give your father his 
freedom. You must not bear more of this excite- 
ment than is necessary, or we will have my brave 
nurse upon our hands as a patient, and. no matter 
how pleasant that might be, we must prevent it if 
we can, as we will prevent the carrying out of the 
designs of our enemies. Come with me, and we can 
talk as we walk. The air will do you good, and the 
getting away from that close building will give you 
new heart. There is so much suffering there that 
one cannot think quite calmly of those who are out- 
side of it.” 

For nearly half an hour they walked slowly up 
and down along the walls within call, if there were 
need of their aid, and Nan felt her heart already 
lighter, as this friend had said it would be, after the 
soft air of the October evening had blown upon her 
sad little face with its crown of tumbled curls. 

There were many plans brought up, discussed, and 
put aside as unavailing. The surgeon, knowing it 
likely that the girl’s father would have met his fate 
almost at once upon his capture, if that fate were to 
be his, did not offer any plan that would in any way 
endanger the life of the girl who would go to the res- 
cue of her father as readily as she would cross the 
shadowy stretch of grass under the old, battle- 
scarred trees where they were walking. And the 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 193 

tTi?drei/that there seemed no ending to 

hd filled the mind of the daughter whose 

heart was with her father as she trod the ^^78 be 
side the hospital walls, with the sturdy frfend who’ 
would have given the best years of hii ^^0 have 
brought her the comfort she sought. But presently 
through the shadows came the form of one^of theor- 

the distant, and seeing 

his e7e hgures, he addressed them, lifting 

mfrat1LTh^fft?Ii®^'?®®V'i?‘^®-^^^ with frank J. 
miration the little lady at the surgeon’s side. 

1 he general sent me over here to bring the mes- 
sage of one of the spies we captured to-day. He is 

faul?’’® Re smh’ ^hls Simple 

^^dehlne^e smiled, seeing the startled look in the 

weRv ho/Jhe *i®'d for some 

to he^W^ot^a against our usual orders, is 

shot at daybreak to-morrow ” 

Nan started and grew even paler than she had 
? i yj^de the hand under that of the surgeon 
trembled violently. Her friend stopped tL voffi 
young officer s rapid words with a gesture, as he de- 

he 4"s M?vey 

granted Te” rst wishThattheUneml^^^^^^ 
he sent me here to discover if there is such a nurse 
under your care as Miss Courtland. ” 

Nan clasped her two hands around the arm of her 
friend as she leaned forward, saying, in a voice she 
did not recognize as her own, it was so strained and 
almost harsh in its very sweetness : 

have you to say to 

T young man stopped confused. '‘But 

1 rear I am mistaken. The prisoner who sent the 
message IS such a villain you can have nothing to 
do with him. He could have nothing to say to vou ’’ 
‘Deliver your message at once/’ said the surgeon 
sternly, and the man obeyed. 

This man — he v/ill not even now give us his true 

narne, though we have a name well fitted to him 

wished this box given to ,Miss Courtland at once, 


194 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


and I was to wait for any answer she should have 
for him. That is all.*’ 

He bowed, and held toward the girl a small box 
set with tiny pearls, and studded with her name in 
rubies. She took it in her hand like a thing of ice, 
standing erect before the two men in all the dignity 
of her womanhood and her brave old blood that had 
descended to her through a line of noble Courtlands 
from the years of the ancient wars. The pallor on 
her face had given place to a flush as warm and 
flaming as the light in the west when the sun 
sets. There was not a quiver of a muscle as she 
touched the spring, and the lid lifted, revealing 
within, upon the blue satin lining, a faded spray of 
Canterbury bells. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE POETUNES OF WAR. 

How many thoughts flashed through her mind as 
she listened to this man speaking of the spy who 
was to be shot on the morrow, and here it ended in 
nothing but the jewel-case that had been taken from 
her room that night long ago that set her mother so 
near death’s door, and laid such trouble upon them. 
Her face was set icily, and there was not a trace of 
the tremor that had struck the kindly heart upon 
the news of her father’s danger. If this thief of 
theirs was to be shot on the morrow — and how else 
could her jewel-case come into his possession? — what 
was it to her? It would be a fit ending to a life of 
such lawlessness. She wished no man harm, but had 
she not said she would And her daring robber some 
day, and though she had not thought that he would 
come to her through the strange fortunes of war, 
yet she was certain from the first that she would 
some day hold him in her power, and mete to him 
the mercy he had shown to her and those dearer to 
her than her own life. And here he had been so 
strangely sent almost to her feet to be shot on the 
morrow at dawning. Was it a Nemesis that brought 
these marvelous things about in the wheeling world? 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


195 


Or was it the turning of the great wheel of fortune 
that crushed so many in order to bear aloft the few? 
Or was it a just God that ruled the lives and the 
changes of the brave old world, and brought the 
straight from the crooked, and made all things 
proved? She smiled stonily as she thought of this, 
and faced the two standing before her waiting for 
the solving of this strange message to the gentle 
nurse in one of the war hospitals. At last she spoke, 
and her voice was as cold and set as her face. She 
even smiled again in that strange fashion, and met 
with her steady blue eyes the waiting ones opposite. 

“I need not go into details regarding this,” she 
said, quietly. ‘‘It could not interest you. But this be 
certain of, the man you are to shoot down to-morrow 
morning as a spy and worse is to have the justice 
meted to him that I have longed for. He robbed my 
home not only of its money value, but he laid my 
mother on a bed of illness from which she has not 
even yet recovered, and set more trouble upon my 
father and the whole house than I could tell you 
should I attempt it. The sentence is just, and I 
would not lift my finger to save him were it in my 
power.” 

Her voice was perfectly distinct and sweet, but 
with that strange iciness in it that was new to the 
man beside her. Her lifted face was as coldly proud 
as the sternest of the old Courtlands could have 
boasted. She had drawn herself to her full height, 
and looked, in the fading light of the clear October 
evening, under the shadow of the trees, like a veri- 
table avenging angel, turning her pure face from 
the contact of such a totally depraved human soul 
as the one she was judging. 

“I agree with you there,” said the young officer, 
quietly, his face grave as the face of the lady be- 
fore him. Her commanding presence, in spite of 
her tiny stature, allowed no other than the gravest 
respect. “But you have not yet read the note that 

accompanies the box, madam. ” 

“I did not see it,” she said, quietly, lifting the 
torn bit of dirty paper from inside the lid of the box, 
no curiosity to learn its contents visible on her cold 


196 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


face. ‘Tardon me for detaining you so long, sir. I 
will read it at once, though there can be no answer 
to any note from him.’’ 

The scorn in her voice gave her listeners a hint of 
the anger she was capable of showing should there 
be cause, and proved her not the weak, tender 
woman the surgeon had called her in his pity. 

She unfolded the paper with careful fingers, and 
turned so that the light from the west should touch 
its rather indistinct characters, written, as it evi- 
dently had been, upon the knee of the writer. She 
read it through once, twice, thrice, the watchers 
marveling greatly at the changes upon her face. 
The stony coldness gave place to deeper scorn, 
softened instantly by a dawning hope and flushing 
with the gladness of some news that must cheer the 
sore heart of its reader. Surgeon McAllister touched 
her arm lightly, his face reflecting the gladness of 
her own. 

“You have news,” he said, “worth having. Miss 
Nan.^ I am so glad for you. There isn’t a man in 
the hospital yonder who would not give his life for 
you, as, you know, and if it is good news, mav we 
not know of it?” 

She lifted her eager face to his, the eyes afire with 
hope, and the . red mouth quivering with its glad- 
ness. 

“You know of what we were talking just now, 
surgeon? Here has come my answer without know- 
ing I This man who is to be shot to-morrow at dawn 
holds it in his. power to save my father if I will save 
him. That is the onlv alternati \^e. Here is his note, 
you can read it for yourself. He will save my fa- 
ther if I will save him. You are to tell me now how 
I can save him.” 

She laughed in the sudden revulsion of feeling 
from the depth of despair to the glimmer of hope. 
Slie held up the torn note v/ith eager hands for her 
friend to read. She seemed unable to daunt with 
her new heart and her new hope. 

In the terms of set courtesy they had used toward 
each other that strange night when he entered her 
room like a shadow of evil, the note ran thus: 


AT A QIBrS MERCY. I97 

“Dear Lady I have not forgotten you, nor the 
brave spirit you proved that night at our chance 
meeting I have watched you ever since, not so 
that you knew I was watching, but -you have been 
nowhere that I can not tell you of. I knew you 
were here among the wounded soldiers, and I am 
not surprised, for a spirit such as yours would of ne- 
cessity follow such an heroic course. But to return 
to my message. This jewel-case of yours will prove 
to you that I am not cheating you with the sem- 
blance of untruth. The flowers have been with me 
through the war, and will be with me when I die 
unless you save my life, as I shall tell you presently! 
lour jewels— well, of what interest is it to you 
where are your jewels? Your father is to a certain 
extent m my power. You never dreamed of this’ 
No, of course not. If I send one little word to the 
commander where he is it would not only save his 
life, but would set him at liberty immediately. I will 
prove it to you if you will give me a chance. Go to 
the general here— he is a kindly man, I can say, 
even though I am in his power— and ask of him my 
life and freedom. You will not? Then your father 
dies at dawning to-morrow, when I die ! I have full 
proof of this. Try me, and save him if you will. 

‘‘Believe me, sweetest lady, yours in life or 
death 


There was no signature, but Nan cared not at all 
for that. The man held her father in his power, and 
would save him if she would save his life. She had 
said she would see him die at her feet, and lift no 
hand of hers for his rescue. True, but she did not 
know of what she spoke. What would she not do 
for her father? If it were in her power— ah. she had 
not stopped to think of that. She had said she would 
save him, that she would put off not for one instant 
longer than necessary going to the general and 
pleading for her father’s sake, for the life of this vil- 
lain. But if he should refuse? If he should tell her, 
as she had just told her friend, that he would not, if 
he could, lift one Anger to save him? Suppose it 
were the judgment for her own harsh unforgiving? 


198 


AT A GIIWIS MERCY. 


Suppose she went in vain, and the morrow’s dawn- 
ing ended her father’s life, as it would end the 
worthless life that held him in its power. At dawn- 
ing — that was not long. Only a few hours at the 
most, and the death or the liberty of her father 
would be assured. Then it would be too late for re- 
grets at failing courage, for regrets for lack of 
power. If she would do her work she must hesitate 
not an instant. She must go to the man who could 
free her father’s saviour, and thus free her father. 
She would win through her bravery, not her tears, 
and surely she could not fail to win. She held out 
her hands to the man beside her. as she said, stead- 
ily, though her heart was throbbing madly: 

“I will come back to you as soon as I can, Sur- 
geon McAllister, but T do not know how long it will 
take to soften the heart of my lion. I shall do my 
best with him. M^ish me success, won’t you?” 

She was very brave and sweet, with her wistful 
eyes upon his face, and he could not daunt her brave 
spirit with any foreboding of ill, though in his heart 
he did not believe she could win. When once the 
command of one’ of these stern generals was uttered 
it was like reclaiming the dead to break them. But 
he could not darken the hope of this brave woman, 
standing in the failing light with her outstretched 
hands and her earnest face uplifted to his, waiting 
for his words of good will. 

‘Tf there is any one in the wide world can gain his 
life. Miss Nan, you are the one to do it! It wouldn’t 
take me long to say yes to you if you were to plead 
with me. I wish you’d try it.” 

He laughed and held her hands wai’mly in his for 
a moment, and then let her go, knowing that surely 
she would fail utterly, but unable to dim the eager- 
ness of the brave heart. 

But how could he know that she would notwin? 
With her tender face and her womanly soul, was it 
impossible to win nearly any battle she should 
fight? Had she not the courage, and the patience, 
and the hope that brings victory at the last? 

She went with this orderly as bravely as though 
she were one of the soldiers of the army, trusting him 


AT A GIRrS MERCY. 


199 


as she would trust any of her brothers, and was al- 
lowed to enter the presence of the general, after a 
few words from the orderly and a glance at the 
eager, wistful face, under its crown of yellow curls, 
that was so like that of a child. . How could they 
say her nay? And once inside the tent of the man 
who could save her father if he would, if he would 
set at liberty one of the greatest villains of the war. 
Nan forgot herself utterly, forgot the look she saw 
upon her friend’s face of utter doubt in her success, 
forgot all things that could take from her errand its 
success, and, advancing with the free grace of a 
child to the table where the general sat, she spoke 
to hiiu in her grave voice that proved it were no 
child, but a woman with a heart brave in spite of its 
sadness, and involuntarily he smiled. She was such 
a grave little woman standing before him with her 
two white hands clasped, and her tender face flushed 
and paling under its yellow, tumbled curls, with the 
wistful wide blue eyes upon his in a pleading he 
could not find it in his heart to utterly withstand, 
and the sweet, low voice uttering unhesitatingly its 
errand. But when she had finished, and was wait- 
ing, the light of her soul making her face very ten- 
der and strong and sweet, the smile was gone from 
his face, and he was as grave as she could be wait- 
ing for his decision. 

“My child,” he said, kindly, no one could be other 
than kind to this brave, proud child-woman, “you do 
not know or you do not realize what you are asking 
me to do. The man for whom you plead is the 
greatest, or one of the greatest, scoundrels on the 
face of the earth. How could I, even to save your 
father’s life, give him his liberty? It would simply 
be setting loose to do more and greater harm a man 
who has already done more toward defeating 
us than you would believe should I tell you. I 
would help you if I could, believe me. But I can- 
not.” 

She was for a moment speechless in her disap- 
pointment and ill success, but her proud old spirit 
came to bear her through, and her tender heart 
would not give up so readily to the stern refusal of 


, 200 


AT A omrs MERCY. 


this man. He was human, he would surely yield. 
Not that she would wish him to stain in any way 
his honor, but if he could do this thing for her 
without blemish to himself would she not win? But 
he would not yield. He was as sternly unyielding 
as he was gravely tender, and though it hurt him 
sorely to disappoint this sweet, brave-hearted woman, 
he must still keep to his commands and put it out of 
the power of this man to do more harm than he had 
done to their cause—ay, though it should demand 
the lives of a hundred such men as this girl’s father, 
for the right should conquer, and he would not let 
his weak heart tempt him to yield — not even to her 
pleading. 

But how cculd she give up hope? How could she 
go back to her work with the knowledge that she 
had failed in this pleading for her father’s Jife? Was 
there nothing she could do? She met bravely the 
stern face opposite her, the eyes under their gray 
brows, looking out kindly at this brave little daugh- 
ter pleading with such tenderness for her father. 

“If you will not grant this wish of mine, if you 
still must refuse — and I would not, even for my fa- 
ther, have you stain your soul with dishonor — if you 
cannot grant my pleading its success, will you 
grant me the liberty of pleading with the man him- 
self, and see if there is nothing I can do with him? 
I must save my father, sir ; I must save my father 
if I can. He is such a brave, grand man, sir, you 
would help him to live if you knew. He has done 
nothing to shame either himself or us — there isn’t 
one of the Courtlands would do it — and I will save 
him if I ” 

“Courtland,” he said, gravely, interrupting her in 
her swift words. “Courtland? Is your father a 
Courtland, child?” 

“Yes,” Nan said, gravely and sweetly, her brave 
heart still keeping up its courage. “Squire Court- 
land of the old Hall in the town beyond the city 
of ” 

“Squire Courtland? The man who has proved of 
such aid to us in this trying time? Are you sure, 
child?” 


201 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 

She laughed as a child would have laughed, as 
^ough she did not know who her own father was. 
Her questioner smiled also involuntarilv. She was 
so like a child. 

Ihere is only one thing I can do,’’ he said pres- 
ently, lifting his head from his hand, where he had 
rested it, thinking over this strange story, yet no 
more strange than many of that terrible time of war. 
“There is only one thing I can do for you, and if 
you fail in your pleading with this man, I will do 
that ^ if I can. But you may go at once. I would 
not let one moment’s delay endanger the life of 
Squire Courtland. Tell the villain in there that if he 
will save your father’s life he shall not meet his 
death to-morrow, though I will not set him free. He 
shall live, but he must live as a prisoner of war, and 
take its chances and its changes. Now you may go. 
Let me know the success of your effort.” 

He smiled upon the small, sunny-haired child as 
she left his presence, believing no more than did her 
friend in the success of her pleading with the man 
she had to deal with, but neither would he place 
one shadow of hindrance in the brave path she was 
treading for her father, whose spirit she had in- 
herited to such good purpose. 

But Nan had no fear, and went proudly into the 
presence of the thief and the man who was doing 
his best and worst to win the victory for his side. 
She was sure she would have known him anywhere, 
but when he arose to greet her, drawn to his full 
height, his fine figure somewhat weakened by the 
hardships and the dangers through which he had 
passed since that night when they met in the airy 
room of the wide old Hall, and though the eyes 
were flashing with the same spirit that had carried 
him through more than she, pure, true woman, could 
ever have dreamed, and there was the grace of his 
bearing, and that swift movement of the hands 
which she had remembered for his undoing should 
the chance ever come to her, she realized that she 
would almost certainly have failed to identify him 
had she been set to do so in a room full of criminals. 

He arose to meet her with the deep courtesy of the 


202 


AT A GIRVS MERCr. 


man who had braved her in her room, and set at de- 
fiance all the laws of daring burglary. She stood 
before him icily, no bending of the slight form, 
though there was a wistful light in the steady eyes 
lifted to his that set his cool attempt at their old 
form of raillery at defiance, and left him for the rno- 
ment discomposed. But he recovered himself in- 
stantly. He had not dared the laws of his country, 
and all the laws of humanity, and the laws of God 
as well, to stand like a foolish boy in the presence 
of this mite of a woman, be she brave and proud as 
she might. 

“My friend is late in coming,’’ he said, smiling, 
the glittering black eyes upon the pure, cold face 
that had lost much of its rose hue since last he saw 
it. “But I knew that you would come. I knew that 
you must obey me in this as you obeyed me in that 
other order of mine. I thank you for your prompt- 
ness in replying, and would ask, if I may, sweet 
friend, in how far you have met with success?” 

“What mercy could you expect?” she asked, 
quietly, her red lips curving in their old scorn. “Did 
you expect me to plead for such as you? Did you 
think I would sully my womanhood by asking for 
the life of a murderer, for the life of a thief and a 
villain in every sense of the word? Did you think 
I left my brave soldiers suffering from cruelty of 
such men as you — did you think I would have left 
them to come here and plead for you? No,” there 
was the ringing scorn that he well remembered, 
and the daring spirit that had braved his power in 
her voice and manner as she spoke. She held her 
proud little head as well up as any duchess of the 
land. Her hands were dropped carelessly at her 
side. She was once more in his presence, but now 
he was at her mercy, all her pity was gone, and he 
'should be paid in his own coin. 

“You have lost none of your high spirit, I see,” he 
said, gallantly bending before her, as though to do 
homage to her bravery. 

There was a new light in the black eyes so in- 
tensely scanning her face. 

“Why should I lose one atom of my spirit?” she 


AT A OIRVS MERCY. 


203 


questioned, haughtily. ‘‘Do you think that such 
men as you, who prove yourselves such cowards as 
to fig^ht in the dark when our brave soldiers never 
fear the light— do you think that such as you could 
daunt the spirit of one of our brave women? We 
scorn you as we would scorn so many serpents at our 
feet, but we would not hurl you lower, for we could 
not. There is no depth you have not reached. I 
could not wish you truer retribution than that which 
has fallen upon you. I said I would not lift my 
finger to save your life were it in my power, and I 
would not, though I would not hurl you lower were 
you not already sentenced to go. I can save your 
life if I will. You need not thank me,’’ the fine 
scorn in her face silencing the words upon his lips 
as he started eagerly forward. I wish no thanks, 
and you must first hear what I have to say. My 
father, you say, is in your power. You mistake 
there. You have it, it may be, in your power to sen- 
tence him to death, but you could no more claim 
power over him than you could claim a hold of an 
angel above you. He is so far beyond your reach 
that I would let him die, ay, and he would wish me 
to do it rather than set such a man as you at liberty 
to do the harm again that you have already done. 
My father will die, you say, at the same hour that 
you die. I can spare your life if I will, I have the 
word of the man who, by one gesture, could stop the 
deed at the instant ere it were done, but I will not 
do it!” 

She was magnificent in her scorn. He felt an in- 
tense sense of admiration for her spirit in spite of 
the fact that her words meant his death knell. 
There was a flash and a light in her eyes that for- 
bade her saving the life of her grand old father by 
also saving the life of this man. There was a hu- 
mility about it that she could not bear. She would 
not lift one finger to stop the righteous sentence 
that had been passed upon him. She could save 
him, but she would not. All the suffering of those 
brave men who had come under her care arose be- 
fore her, and she could herself have struck this man 
dead. She would utter no word to spare his life — 


204 


AT A GIRL'S MERGT, 


the life that had caused the death of so many brave 
men. The life that were better ended, the life that 
could come to no good after its course of utter vil- 
lainy. 

‘T came in here to plead for my father,’’ she said. 
‘T can save your life but not your freedom. But 
when I came and realized what I should do I would 
not take mv father’s life from your hands as a gift 
were there no need of my uttering a word in your 
defense. I would scorn the gift, and so would he I” 

She turned and laid her hand upon the flapping 
curtain of the tent as though she would leave him, 
but he started forward, and she paused, gracious 
even at the last. 

“Your scorn becomes you,” he said, but there was 
a harshness in his voice that she had never before 
heard. The glittering black eyes were bloodshot, 
as though there had come to him, daring as he had 
proved himself, a moment of cowardly terror at 
what lay before him. Then he laughed, and the 
laugh was harsh and bitter as he threw a bit of 
paper at her feet. “I thank you, sweet friend, for 
the life you would so graciously grant me, and in 
return I give you, without hope of reward, the word 
that will not only save your father’s life, but set 
him at liberty as free as he was ere ever the war 
broke out. This only have I to tell you, but one 
word of warning that you will understand, against 
the man you know as well as I, whom I need not 
name. He has proved his power. He has worked 
for your undoing from the first. How, think you, 
did we know so well the plan of your home? Who 
set the traps for your father, and would not be 
daunted, and worked always in secrecy with the 
might of his wealth? You know as well as I, and I 
but warn you. You show me no more mercy than 
he has shown you, yet I will not go out of the world 
without this warning. And now I have but one fa- 
vor to ask of you. It is to you perhaps a small 
thing; to me it is much. Will you grant me the re- 
turn of the spray of flowers I sent you as guerdon of 
my faith? They have been with me through all 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


205 


since that m’ght in your home, and I wish not to part 
with them on the threshold of a new life/’ 

Again he laughed, and the girl unconsciously 
shivered. She had borne much, but she was begin- 
ning to falter with this strain upon her. The full 
knowledge of what a treacherous, desperate man 
will do to accomplish his ends was being proved be- 
yond a doubt. She had scorned him, but he was 
proving his power in spite of her pride. And this 
man, his acknowledged tool, had pleaded with her 
for mercy — had dared plead with her for mercy. 

“I acknowledge the great sacrifice you are offer- 
ing when you grant the power to release my father 
without the granting of your life,” she said, steadily, 
“but I could not accept it, sir. My father would not 
accept it, given by the hand that gives its blow in 
the dark. I wish to be merciful. I might even have 
been more kind to you, knowing that, as you say, 
you are on the threshold of a new life, but I have 
seen so many brave lives go out without a quiver of 
fear that I hold if you will even you need have no 
fear of death. I put away all unkind thoughts, and 
offer my deepest sympathy and hope that you may 
prove your soul fit for death, and that a Higher 
Judge may be more merciful to you than you have 
been to others, f arewell, sir. We will never meet 
asrain. I grant this wish of yours, and would gladly 
grant the wiping out of all your life together with 
that of your accomplice, were it in my power.” 

She inclined her head with slow graciousness, 
reaching out to him the jewel-box, so granting his 
last request, and turning, lifted the tent curtain, and 
was gone, leaving him to the darkness of his 
thoughts, scorning the fit of paper that the lifting 
of the curtain had drifted to his feet. And so his life 
went out. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

A DAUGHTER OF THE UNION. 

Xan left the tent as bravely as she had entered it, 
and was again admitted into the presence of the 


206 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


general. The orderly had followed her in this visit 
to the condemned man, and lifted the curtain of the 
general’s tent for her to enter. He was another of 
those brave young fellows who were never specially 
noticed during that terrible war, but was as brave 
and self-denying as those others who made their 
names dear to all hearts by their bravery and truth. 
This small, graceful lady, with the air of a princess 
and the sweetness of an angel, was like a bit of the 
peace they were fighting for, and that must come ere 
many more months should pass. Waiting, as he had 
been ordered to wait, iust out of earshot, yet within 
calling distance should there be need of his assist- 
ance, he caught now and then words that gave him 
the insight into the errand of this brave girl, for 
her voice was clear, and the night wind drifted these 
words to him, and they followed him through life : 
‘T came in here to plead for my father — but when 
I realized what i should do I would not take my fa- 
ther’s life from your hands as a gift — I would scorn 
the gift, and so would he!” He never forgot the 
words nor the clear voice uttering them, and through 
his life they infiuenced him to higher action. Is 
there no power in a woman’s hands? 

She walked proudly, as a daughter of the Union 
should, into the presence of the general of the army. 
There was a light in her eyes that was dazzling, and 
a curve of the sweet lips that betrayed the grand old 
spirit of her father, and the soul that must scorn, 
even to reclaim a life, the acceptance of a gift from 
a villain and a traitor. She walked up to the table 
where the general still sat and said, as he glanced 
up to learn her errand : 

“Pardon my troubling you again, sir, but I must 
let you know that I would not have you, for me, stay 
for one instant the carrying out of your command 
in regard to this man. ‘l should have known that I 
could not accept from the hands of a traitor the true 
life of my father. I thank you for your kindness, 
sir. I will find some way to save him, or, if not, 
he would far rather die than be given back to us at 
the hands of such a man.” 

“Stay,” the general said, as she was turning with 


AT A QIBL'S MEBCY, 


207 


her proud inclination of the graceful head. ‘‘You 
did perfectly right in that. I was pretty sure a 
Courtland could not take such a gift. The squire, as 
you say, would not wish it. You have his spirit. 
There is much I would do for him and you. We will 
do what we can to save your father. I shall 
send ’’ 

The orderly entered with a word of excuse for the 
interruption. 

“Pardon me, general. Surgeon McAllister sent 
this note to Miss Courtland by messenger, with 
orders to give it to her at once.’’ 

There was a frown on the general’s brow as the 
young orderly, bowing, handed the missive to Nan, 
and withdrew silently as he had come. Such intru- 
sion was against his orders, unless there were per- 
emptory demand. But the face of this proud woman 
before him, glancing at it, softened instantly any 
anger he felt toward- the young man on his staff. 
The haughty pallor had fled, and in its place was the 
flushing of new life and the gladness that made the 
sweet face like a charm to heal the hurt of those 
wounded fellows in her care. A smile was dawning 
around the lips that had been so drawn with self re- 
pression but a moment before. She shook back the 
tumbled curls from her forehead with her old child- 
ish manner, and there was the faint ripple of laugh- 
ter across her lips that proved how sweet the sound 
might be. The man before her, one of the bravest 
generals of the time, was used to nearly every phase 
of hardship and pathos, but even he, who had more 
than once signed a death warrant without a quiver 
of an eyelash, felt a sudden moisture on his cheek at 
the sound of this girl’s sweet laughter, faint though 
it was, and the thought came of how bitter the war 
really was to so change a sunny nature. She came 
quickly up to him. What if he were one of the 
greatest generals of the day? What if he were able 
to frown down her gladness? The paper in her hand 
held out so eagerly toward him gave the touch that 
must soften even the harshest word. 

“Read it,” she said, sweetly, the blue eyes alight 
with happiness. ^'You will be glad as I to know it. 


m 


AT A GIRrS MERCY, 


My father is safe, and a friend of mine is waiting to 
see me at the hospital. I thank you for all you have 
done, sir — for all you would have done, but I can- 
not help being so glad there is no need of any plan- 
ning to save my father. How could they harm him, 
if they would, the dear, big, brave father, who would 
scorn any harmx they attempted against him.” 

The man before her smiled, and the grave face 
was gentle and kindly with this touch of tenderness 
upon it. How like a child she was in spite of her 
womanliness. Did she think even such a grand old 
spirit as her father’s could hinder for an instant the 
execution of any plans laid by the enemy? Did she 
think they would not have more gladly taken his 
life, and so ended the help he was giving them to 
win the victory? She was a child in spite of her 
grace and her pride. The yellow curls were aflutter, 
and the flushed face that of the veriest child in the 
world. But the eyes— ah, they were, after all, the 
eyes of a woman with the dauntless soul and the 
daring that would win, struggling against wrong 
and oppression. He held out his hand to her, the 
hand that held so much nower, and he arose in the 
height of his manhood to bid her farewell and God 
speed. 

“There is little I can say to help such a brave 
woman,” he said, gravely, and the smile was still 
stirring the iron-gray mustache. “It is such women 
as you that do more toward the bringing of peace 
than all the fighting we men can enter. You 
strengthen our hearts, and you keep warm the 
thought of the homes for which we are to win, and 
we win. Good-by, child. You are worthy such a 
father. The man you could have saved shall know 
your power and the womanhood that knew the utter 
uselessness of granting more time to a soul that 
would but use it for harm to others. If I come 
through the battles that are before us I shall hope 
to meet you some day— you and the father of whom 
you are justly so proud.” 

He crossed the space to the door, and lifted the 
flapping curtain for her to pass through, with the 
courtly grace that he would not have shown even a 


AT A (JIRL’S 3IERCr. 


209 


queen, and bowed graciously as she lifted her ten- 
der face to him in her farewell, the smile haunting 
him in many quiet moments afterward. 

“With men such as yourself at thf^ head there 
can be no doubt of victory,’^ she said, softly, the 
smile in her eyes as well as on the red lips as she 
passed out of his presence. 

“You ought to be proud of your general,’’ she 
said, sweetly, to the orderly, who walked respect- 
fully. beside her to the old church that was now 
their hospital. “If there were more grand men like 
him there would be less war in the world. Good- 
night. You have been kind to me, and I wish for 
you the happy ending to any trouble you may have, 
that you have brought to mine.” 

She held out her hand as frankly as she would 
have done to one of her brothers, and there was a 
smile on the lifted, tender face under the faint 
light from the church door where she was bidding 
him farewell. And many a time during the long 
weary months of the war the girl’s face returned to 
him as it looked that night, and took on the expres- 
sion of an angel smiling her kindly wishes for his 
life. While Nan, entering the open door, found the 
surgeon waiting for her with another form beside 
him which at lirst she did not see. The darkness 
outside was still in her eyes, and the lights within 
were dazzling as she stood at the entrance, her brave 
face lifted to her friend as she uttered, swiftly, her 
gladness at his message. 

“The general would have done what he could,” 
she said, “and the cowardly traitor himself offered me 
my father’s life without reward, but I could not ac- 
cept it at such hands as his. And now,” she added, 
and the surgeon’s eyes grew misty at the girl’s hap- 
piness so clearly reflected in the face, “bring me to 
my friend, please. Surgeon McAllister, and tell me 
more about my father. It is so good to know.” 

“Nan,” the voice in her ears sent the color from 
her face and set a dazed look in the wide eyes raised 
to the face bent above her. 

Was it the darkness that had blinded her and 
maybe touched her hearing? Was she dreaming,, 


210 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 


or had the terrible days turned her brain with their 
horrors? Was this— she caught her breath, and 
stretched out her two hands as though to prove if 
this were dream or reality — was this in truth the 
friend who had come to her — the friend who must 
have come to her at her need from the world of the 
dead? Was this — the darkness reeled and the lights 
went whirling about her. But she kept her senses 
with a stern determination to not lose hold of this 
one ray of hope. Was this in truth the friend whom 
she had come to meet, the friend whom the surgeon 
had said was waiting for her? She steadied her 
nerves with a mighty effort and lifted her white face 
to the bronzed face above her, steadied she believed 
by the strong hands holding her own, by the tender- 
ness of the face, and eyes, and lips so near her. 

“Ned?” she said, faintly, and there was a strange 
line of pain around the trembling mouth as the won- 
der deepened in the wide eyes searching the face 
above her. 

The surgeon had disappeared, and they were 
alone at the doors of the ruined church, where the 
mantle of charity had spread itself over the suffer- 
ers of the world 

“Ned? Have you truly come to me knowing how 
I need you, or is it only a dream that must end so 
bitterly — so bitterly?” v 

He stooped to her in swift tenderness, the drawn 
face and troubled eyes too much for him to with- 
stand. He drew her to him, and steadied there, and 
always through their lives the small, brave woman 
with his arms. 

“Nan— darling,” he said, his voice driving out all 
doubt from the mind of the girl, with the searching 
eyes and the quivering, lifted face. “Nan! What 
is it, dearest, that you would say? Did you not know 
I would come to you as soon as I should hear of this 
trouble to your father? Could you not have trusted 
me to save him were it in human power? Did you 
think I could let the father of my dear little sweet- 
heart die if it were in my power to fight for him and 
do what I could to save him for her? Have vou, 
after all, so little faith in me, Nap, darling?” " He 


AT A OmrS MERCY. 


211 


kissed the quivering red lips and smiled into the face 
that had been brave through so much suffering. 
“My poor little sweetheart!” 

She steadied her voice and heart as she laid her 
hands on his arrns, smiling a dawning smile of new 
life and hope, being so sure now that it were in truth 
no dream, but the sweetest reality that could come 
to her. The warm color was once more in the smooth 
cheek as he touched so tenderly the tumbled yellow 
curls on the sunny head, the brown eyes upon hers. 

“But I thought you were dead, Ned,” she said, 
and there was still a tremble in the low, sweet voice. 
“They said you were dead, and I have been ” 

He stopped any words she would have uttered. A 
wonder came upon his own face. No wonder the 
sweet face had grown so pale at his presence. No 
wonder the sweet eyes could not comprehend. 

“Poor little sweetheart !” he said again, and the 
low voice was very tender. “I never knew you had 
such a thought. Nan. I learned from the squire that 
there had been such a rumor in the papers, but I 
thought you knew long ago that it was untrue. I 
was not even wounded in that scrimmage, Nannie, 
and if I had known ” 

But what did she care so long as it was not true 
— so long as this tried friend of her life was with her 
again ? 

“Tell me about papa, Ned,” she said, softly. “It is 
so good to have you here again. I feel brave al- 
ready.” 

“As though you were not always,” he said, ten- 
derly. “Did I not tell you that morning after the 
terrible night you proved your brave spirit — did I 
not tell you it would take a short change to make 
you a general. Nan? You have proved ” 

She interrupted him swiftly, a shudder of fear and 
horror upon her. 

“Did you know he — that burglar — is to be shot to- 
morrow at dawn in the camp down there, Ned? I 
came from him when you sent for nie. It is so dread- 
ful, Ned — so dreadful!” 

“It is what he deserves. Nan,” he said, sternly, 
silencing further words of hers. “He is the worst 


212 


AT A OIErS MERCY. 


enemy you have. You cannot know the depth of his 
villainy— the depth of his crime. What will you say 
when I tell you that he and Blake were simply work- 
ing for each other? That it was at Blake’s instiga- 
tion he robbed your father the better to gain a hold 
upon you. To be shot is too good for this villain. 
Your surgeon told me about it. I could shoot him 
myself, and every rifle should be loaded for his death 
when they bring him out to-morrow.” 

“Don’t, Ned,” she said. “Don’t, Ned! I know he 
deserves to die, but to' die as he must, with such a 
cowardly life behind him, is so terrible I cannot bear 
to think of it. I might have saved his life, Ned — I 
might have saved his life to-night, and so saved fa- 
ther, as I thought, but I could not do it. And he told 
me — yes — about Howard Blake. I guessed he was 
capable of treachery, but it is dreadful to know it 
beyond doubt. Was I very hard and cruel to this 

man, Ned? I am almost sorry now ” 

He smiled into the anxious, quivering face. 

“You would have been no daughter of your fa- 
ther, no daughter of the Union, Nan,” he said, 
steadily, “if you had done such a thing. He de- 
serves death, and to be shot is too good for him. A 
hundred more years of granted life would have been 
used simply in acts of harm. You shall think of this 
no longer, and I will tell you instead about the brave 
man who is justly your father.” 

“Yes, Ned,” she said, obediently. 

It was strange how she had changed in the few 
short minutes since their meeting. 

She was still the brave, noble woman who would 
have given her father to death rather than have ac- 
cepted his life at the hands of a coward, but there 
was a sense of being able to lean upon the strength 
of another now that made her the tender girl of the 
old Hall days. She had and would always obey com- 
mands of Ned when uttered in this kindly voice, and 
her heart was too thankful at having him again 

f iven back to her to rise for even an instant in re- 
ellion at any command of his. 

“Yes, Ned,” she said again. “Poor, dear papa! 
might have known you would save him. But how 


AT A GIRLS MERCT. 213 

did they ever get him, Ned? How did they ever 
suspect him of doing good to the army against them? 

u i? ever dare to come for him to the dear 
oia Mall and take him away from there as though 
he were a criminal!’' I don't see how one of the men 
on the place could have let them do it." 

‘‘But they did not do it, Nan." 

He was arguing within himself whether he should 
tell the girl the whole of the story or not. She had 
proved her bravery, but he would not add one iota 
to the struggle she had endured, and must still en- 
dure, if she remained through the terrible months 
that were coming, when the struggle would be fiercer 
and the horrors greater than they had been even 
yet. 

“They did not go to the old Hall, Nan. There is 
not a man therein your father’s employ but would 
have died for him rather than have let that happen. 
But they took him in the city, they captured him by 
strategy where open action must have failed. They 
were guided and posted by one of the greatest vil- 
lains the world could have borne. This man you 
left to his fate to-night is as nothing compared to 
the villainy of that other man who betrayed vour 
father into the hands of the enemy, and has done 
all that was in his power to injure him in the past 
few months. He would have committed any act of 
villainy to win you— to win my brave, noble girl, too 
high above him for even his thought to rest upon. 
Howard Blake? Yes, Nan, none other than he, and 
could there have been some power to have stopped 
him in the beginning there would have been more 
peace and more happiness in your old home to-day 
than there is. He would revenge himself upon you 
for your slights of him, for so he said when he was 
dying. Nan, for he is dead. Thrown from his horse 
and hurt to death, but living long enough to dell the 
villainy of his life. He would win you. Nan, and 
would so bring down the pride that had always been 
his hate— he, the unlawful son of a man as cowardly 
as himself — and he bent his life to the winning, 
thinking no villainy too cowardly or too cruel to tlm 
end he wished to gain. He has been guilty of more 


214 


AT A omrs MERCY. 


than you could realize, should I tell you, Nan — more 
than I would tell you here away from the shelter of 
your home. But he has failed — failed utterly, and 
my brave girl and her noble father are freed from 
his hold and his planning at last. For your father 
is safe. Nan — never mind how we saved him.” 

How could he tell her of the capture of the men 
who were under escort on their way to the govern- 
ment post, where he must have been out of all power 
to save unless by miracle — of the capture after the 
fierce fight that had lasted but for a few short min- 
utes, and ended in the victory of their men and the 
return of her father to his liberty? Her heart was 
sick enough with the struggle and the trials and the 
sadness of this war, and he would tell her nothing 
of what should prove to her the utter recklessness 
of the men who would end the war if treachery or 
bravery would do it. 

“Your father is safe. Nan, and once more in the 
old home. You need have no fears of further harm 
being done him, for Charlie is there — your Charlie, 
who proved so grandly his brave spirit in the field, 
but who, giving, as so many have, one of his limbs 
to the victory of his country, is now at home, where 
he was sent, with the honor due him for his brave 
defense of his country’s honor. You may be proud 
of your brothers. Nan. They have the old Court- 
land spirit,” added her lover, with pride in his own 
heart for the noble girl at his side. “I came to you 
at once. Nan, but I must leave you again. There 
are the needs of war, and I could not hesitate even 
for you, my brave girl. But you are to keep up 
heart, and all will come well in the end, and the 
war will end with our victory, be the struggle no 
matter how hard.” 

And Nan smiled steadily and bravely into the 
gentle face bent above her, and knew that there 
must be struggling even harder than there had yet 
been ere the victory should come, but why should 
she send away the lover just given back to her with 
other than words of the bravest and the strongest? 


AT A OIBL'8 MERCY. 


215 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE END AND THE BEGINNING. 

The war was at an end. The struggle was over. 
There were the dead, and the homes left desolate, 
and the hearts sick with longing for those who could 
never return, but brave with the knowledge that 
their dear ones fought well and bravely for the end. 
There were the numberless graves in the church- 
yards, and the countless graves without headstone 
or the sanctity of the church’s shadow above them 
on the fields, but peace had come once more to our 
beloved Ihnd, and hearts should not fail at the lives 
laid down for its winning. 

And what a contrast to the battle-fields, with their 
dead and their thunder, was the quiet old Hall in 
the midst of its lawn and the fragrant garden toward 
the south, where the carnations and the blue bells 
of Canterbury breathed their lives out under the 
sunny skies. No battle there, and no hint of thun- 
der and blood of the fields, where brave men gave 
their lives and noble women gave their hearts’ 
best gifts for the ending of the struggle. 

Five years had passed since the night that Nan 
Courtland, in the pride of her womanhood and the 
knowledge that her brothers were fighting on the 
battle-fields, faced the daring chief of the burglars, 
who would have robbed them of their peace and 
their gold, spurred on by the man who hated her, 
had it not been for her brave spirit. Five years, and 
again the old Hall resounded with laughter and the 
noise of men’s voices and the ringing whistle that 
had made the old place echo with life since the 
boys romped through the rooms and the shadowy 
halls. There was commotion, too, more than the 
everyday life would cause through the house and 
the lawn and garden. There was the burst of happy 
song on the lips of the daughter of the house, and 


216 


AT A GIEVS MERCY, 


the girl who had been her friend all her life. There 
was the merry call from garret to cellar, as though 
life would not grant in one day the happiness that 
was crowding to the lips of its inmates. 

“It’s too good for anything.” Nan whispered, as 
she caught her friend around the waist, meeting in 
the upper hall, where the western sun flooded 
through the high windows in a magnificent burst of 
glory. “It’s just too good to be true, Helen Travers, 
that my very best brother is to have you, and my 
other very dearest brother is to come to us to-night 
with the girl who proved her gentle heart, while he 
was so ill there at the South. It’s just too good to 
believe, and I never shall believe it until it is proved 
beyond a doubt.” 

Helen laughed also, though there was a hidden 
touch of tendernes'3 in the soft sound that told of 
deeper feeling beneath the merry surface. * 

“It is good to think of. Nan,” she said, and there 
was that in the hazel eyes that made the other 
reach up a-tip-toe to kiss her. “I am proud of my 
brave soldier lover, and of my little Nan's brothers. 
But there is another brother who happens to be 
mine that somebody else should be proud of, too, 
saucy child!” 

“Oh!” the warm color flamed across the dimpled 
cheeks, and the wide eyes grew dewy for an in- 
stant. “Of course, Helen Travers ! But I am only 
talking about your happiness now. Mine came to 
me ever so long ago, and the war will always have 
a kindly thought from me, remembering what it 
brought me.” 

“Yes, and the brother of yours who is coming 
home to-night brought back to you, as it wer 3 , from 
the dead,” added Helen, gravely. 

That had been a terrible time when there had 
come no news of this bonny, blue-eyed brother; 
when it seemed that there could come no news to 
heal the sore hearts waiting ^nd longing for what 
they were certain could never come to them. When 
it seemed that the terrible war had ended, but also 
ended for them the merry voice and the sunny 
heart that had been one with this sunny haired 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY. 217 

daughter in making the old Hall echo with laughter 
and noises. And then there had come this news 
brought so strangely, by the fugitive girl for whoni 

^ 1 such a merry wedding in the midst 

ot the battle, who, now the war was over, had re- 
turned to the South to learn of her mother's fate 
and recognized— what strange chances there are iii 
of her wedding night in the young 
omcer, raving in delirium brought on by exposure 
and a wound that must have proved fatal but for 
the tender care of the Southern girl of the household 
where this fugitive girl's mother was, held faithful 
by the kindness shown her, even when she might 
have gone with the other recklessly happy negroes 
to their freedom, leaving those for whom they had 
worked, many of whom had been more kind to 
them than they could ever expect of those to whom 
they were going — there she had recognized this 
bonny-haired young officer, and when his health 
was coming back, and he could talk to her, she had 
come after weary and troublesome journeying, not 
being used to such, to the Hall, with her glad news 
that must cheer the aching hearts waiting for what 
they feared must come as the end of this silence and 
waiting. 

Frank had been in Libby prison, and when at last 
the prisoners were liberated, he had started home, 
and fallen ill with this fever that would waste away 
the life of the strongest without aid, and one of his 
brother sufferers, a Southern gentleman in the uni- 
form of the North, had taken him with him to his 
home and the care of his mother and sisters. And 
there he had been brought back to life as he could 
never have been, but for this timely aid and this 
kindly heart born under the southern sky. 

And this woman, whose heart was full of grati- 
tude for the kindness shown her during the strange 
day and night of her wedding, would do for the 
sunny-faced young officer what she could to repay 
in a little the memory of what he had done for her. 
And she came like a messenger of hope to the Hall, 
and was welcomed as she must be welcomed bear- 
ing such glad news. 


218 


AT A GIBVS MERCY. 


And now, to-night, Frank was coming back to the 
peace and the quiet of home, and with him would 
come the girl who had nursed him with such tender 
care, who had shown him the sweetness and the 
nobleness of women standing on the other side of 
the fight ready if the chance came to prove the will- 
ingness of the heart to do and to suffer if need be. 
And the old Hall was alive with the gladness that 
had entered it with the coming of this news, and the 
waiting hearts were eager preparing for the wel- 
come to the returned brave brother and the un- 
known but surely loved girl who had brought him 
back to life and the dear home. 

“And what is the use of waiting?’’ Ned had whis- 
pered in the ear of the sunny-haired sister waiting 
the return of her brother from the chances and the 
changes of war. “What is the use of waiting. Nan? 
Why can’t we get married, too, when Frank comes 
home with his bride ” 

But Nan would not listen, and laughed her sauci- 
est as she retorted her answer, hashing her great 
blue eyes, so alight with happiness, upon this eager., 
lover of hers. 

“No, Ned Travers. There shall be nothing but 
the home coming of our dear old Frank with his 
bride that night. I could never think of you, even 
at such a time, as I must think of the man I am 
marrying.” 

And he had kissed the willful lips, acknowledg- 
ing that the lady of his choice had won — surely — the 
right to do as she would about the wedding day, 
when she had given her heart to such tender work 
as he knew had filled her days in the strange hos- 
pital of the church under its dreary shadows, scarred 
with the smoke and cannon of the battle, where 
many a life went out with her tender face bent 
above, and many a life was saved with her patience 
and her tenderness. 

And the squire, with his added years and the 
marks of care upon his grand old face, could have 
asked for no more happiness as he sat with his 
gentle, white-haired wife — given back to him from 
the very edge of the grave, as he said— among the 


AT A GIRL'S MERCY, 


219 


eager group— Nan and Charlie, and Helen and Ned, 
with their mother and sister— waiting for the sound 
of wheels that would herald the approach of the so 
long-missed boy from the old Hall. And Nan, her 
hand in her lover’s, whispered now and then a word 
that told of the sad watching of hers on those steps, 
so long ago the memory even was softened of the 
man whose harsh hand would have crushed out all 
the sweetness of life for the sake of his revenge, 
who would have cheated her as to the death of her 
lover in the hope of taking his place— who would 
have struck out with death the life of her father in 
order to gain a firmer hold upon her— but whom, 
now touched by the hand of death himself, she could 
think of with kindness and a trace of sadness for 
the bitterness that had marred a life God meant 
should be noble. 

And then the scented silence of the evening was 
iDroken by the rumble of wheels, and the sparrows 
in the tall elms each side the gateway arose in a 
flock, in their excitement, crying — and the girl 
laughed to remember— the cheery, “cheer, cheer, 
cheer,” she had listened to with such a different 
heart in the days when the world held so much of 
sadness she could gain cheer even from the calling 
of the birds. 

And the carriage turned in at the gateway, and 
the group were on the steps, and the old Hall, even 
to the garden, was ringing with the glad voices 
that had brought sorrow but not death to its in- 
mates. While out in the garden the carnations and 
the Canterbury bells were swinging softly in the 
gathering darkness, lulled to sleep with the sound of 
laughter and soft voices and happy hearts breaking 
in song now and then through the rooms where sad- 
ness had rested so long, the lifting of the vail had 
left the hearts light with new hope and new life and 
romise of the peace that would come upon the 



And even in the midst of this gladness the girl, 
through whose hands the glad news had come to the 
aching hearts there, was not forgotten, and in her 
home farther toward the east were tokens of their 


220 


AT A QIBrS MERCY. - 


remembrance and the warm hearts that could not 
prove Jby gifts, though they tried, how deeply she 
had their good wishes and their sympathy. 

THE END. 




‘‘BEAUTIFUL RIENZI,’’ by Annie Ashmore, 
will be published in the next number (41) of The 
Select Series. 


THE 

MERRY-MAKER 

ALMANAC. 


MAILED FEEE TO ANT ADDRESS, 


Very Comic-Full of Pictures. 


Will Drive the Blues out of a Bag 
of Indigo. 


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ta us, and receive this Almanac FEEE. 
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Bertha M. Clay’s 

Iji-A.T3E:ST 

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IlST 

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No. 28-A HEART’S IDOL. 

No. 36-THE GIPSY’S DAUGHTER. 
No. 37-IN LOVE’S CRUCIBLE. 

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The story of “The Senator’s Bride” is something more than 
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OCTAVIA’S PRIDE; 

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THE MISSING WITNESS. 

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BADLY MATCHED; 

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WOMAN AGAINST WOMAN. 

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Woman^s honor and woman’s deception are in this story 
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OB, 

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of culture and refinement, accustomed to all the luxuries of wealth, 
whose mental vision at first does not range beyond the rose-colored 
haze of the honey-moon ; but she at length descends from the clouds 
of the lovers’ dreamland, with eyes wide open, and stares this startling 
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No. 37-IN LOVE’S CRUCIBLE, by Bertha M. Clay. 

No. 3G-THE GIPSY’S DAUGHTER, by Bertha M. Clay. 

No. 35-CECILE’S MARRIAGE, by Lucy RaudaU Comfort. 

No, 34-THE LITTLE WIDOW, by Julia Edwards. 

No. 33-THE COUNTY FAIR, by Neil Burgess. 

No. 32-LADY RYIIOPE’S LOVER, by Emma Garrison Jones. 
No. 31— MARRIED FOR GOLD, by Mrs. E. Burke CoUins. 

No. 30- PRETTIEST OF ALL, by Julia Edwards. 

No. 29— THE HEIRESS OFEGREMONT, by Mrs. Harriet Lewis. 
No. 28— A HEART’S IDOL, by Bertlia M. Clay. 

No. 27 -WINIFRED, by Mary Kyle Dallas. 

No. 26— FONTELROY, by Francis A. Durivage. 

No. 25-THE KING’S TALISMAN, by Syhanus Cobb, Jr. 

No. 24— THAT DOWDY, by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

No. 23-DKNMAN THOMPSON’S OLD HOMESTEAD. 

No. 22-A HEART’S BITTERNESS, by Bertha M. Clay. 

No. 21— THE LOST BRIDE, by Clara Augusta. 

No. 20— INGOMAR, by Nathan D. Urner. 

No. 19 — A LATE REPENTANCE, by Mrs. Mary A. Denison. 
No. 18— ROSAMOND, by Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. 

No. 17-THE HOUSE OF SECRETS, by Mrs. Harriet Lewis. 
No. 16-SIBYL’S INFLUENCE, by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

No. 15-THE VIRGINIA HEIRESS, by May Agnes Fleming. 

No. 14 — FLORENCE FALKLAND, by Burke Brentford. 

No. 13 -THE BRIDE ELECT, by Annie Ashmore. 

No. 12-THE PHANTOM WIFE, by Mrs. M. V. Victor. 

No. 11— BADLY MATCHED, by Helen Corwin Pierce. 


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any 


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W OMEN’S SECRETS 


The public are at last permitted to take a peep into the 
wonderful and mysterious art of 

“HOW TO BE BEAUTIFUL.” 

We will soon become a nation of Beauty. Read how, in the table of 


CONTENTS ; 


THE VALUE OP PERSONAL BEAUTY.— This chapter relates to the beauty 
in “Genius,” “Strength,” “Religion,” “Poetry,” aurt “Chivalry.” 

THE HISTORY OP BEAUTY.— Mode of acquiring it by the people of different 
nations. What people are the most beautiful] 

VARIOUS STANDARDS OF BEAUTY. — Tastes of civilized and uncivilized 
people. The French definition of beauty. 

THE BEST STANDARD OF BEAUTY.— Defines the Head, Hair, Eyes, Cheeks, 
Ears, Nose, Mouth, Bosom, Limbs, and in fact every part of the human form. 

HOW TO RAISE BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN. — To newly married people, and 
those who contemplate entering the conjugal state, this chapter alone is 
well worth the price of the book. 

HOW TO BE BEAUTIFUL.— Tliis chapter is full of information, as it not only 
tells, howto beautify every part of the form and features, but gives recipes 
and cures for all the ailments which tend to mar or blemish. 

BEAUTY SLEEP.™ To be beautiful it is not necessaiy to be like the bird that 
seeks its nest at sunset and goes forth again at sunrise. You will here find 
the required time to be spent in bed, the imsitious most conducive to health, 
facts regarding ventilation, bed-clothes, adornments, and other useful hints. 

BEAUTY FOOD.— Instructs how, when, and where to eat, and also treats of 
Digestion, Complexion, Foods which color the skin, etc. 

HOW TO BE FAT.— Tlie information imparted in this chapter will be a boon to 
thin, delicate women, as it tells what to eat and what to avoid, also what to 
drink and how to dress wlien plumpness is desirable. 

HOW TO BE LEAN. — If corpulent women will carefully follow the Instructions 
herein, they will be happy and enjoy life. 

BEAUTY BATHING AND EXERCISE. — This chapter is intended for every 
one to read and profit by. There is no truer saying than “Cleanliness is next 
to Godliness.” 

EFFECTS OF MENTAL EMOTIONS ON BEAUTY.— After you read this, we 
feel safe in saying that you will not give way to anger, surprise, fright, grief, 
vexation, etc., but will ^at all times strive to be cheerful and make the best 
of life. 


HOW BEAUTY IS DESTROYED.— The women are warned In this chapter 
against quack doctors and their nostrums, the dangers of overdosing, and 
irregular liabits, 

HOW TO REMAIN BEAUTIFUL.— It is just as easy for those that are beauti- 
ful to remain so as to allow themselves to fade away like a flower which 
only blooms fora season. 

HOW TO ACQUIRE GRACE AND STYLE.— Without grace and style beauty 
is lost. They are as essential as a beautiful face. To walk ungracefully or 
awkwardly is not only vulgar but detrimental to the health. 

THE LANGUAGE OF BEAUTY.— This chapter will enable yon to read a per- 
son and learn his or lier character, without the use of a phrenological chart, 

CORSETS.- Wlien and what kind should be worn. How they wore originated 
and by whom. 

CYCLING.“The latest craze for ladles is fully described in this chapter. 


WOMEfS SECRETS ; op, Hoi to be Beatittt 

THE BEST SELLING BOOK OF THE DAY. 

Just Out. Price S5 Cents. 

Por ^ale by all Newsdealers. 

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 

31 Hose Htreet* 




U MM'S WIFE. 


An Entrancing Emotional Story, 


By BERTHA M. OLAY. 


No. I Of the Primrose Edition ot Copyright Noveis. 


Olotl:!.. Fx*ioo, $1. 


SOME OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 

Messrs. Street & Smith, New York, begin anew series of novels— “The 
Primrose Library”— with “Another Man’s Wife,” by Bertha M. Clay. The 
story has enough plot to keep one from falling asleep over it, and it also in- 
dicates the stumbling-blocks and pitfalls which abound everywhere for 
young husbands and wives who think so much about having “a good time” 
that they have no time left in whi6h to think about reputation and 
character.— A. T. Herald, Sept. 10. 

Street <fe Smith publish the American copyright novel. “Another Man’s 
Wife.” by Bertha M. Clay. It deals with certain corruptinir influences of 
fashionable society, and impressively warns of the dangers that spring 
from them. Its plot is strong and dramatic, and is elaborated with all of 
the qualities of style that have made the author so popular. It is the first 
issue of the new Primrose Series. — Boston Globe, Sept. 16. 

“Another Man’s Wife,” by Bertha M. Clay, Street & Smith’s Primrose 
Series, is a laudable effort toward the repression of the growing evil of 
matrimonial di.sloyalty. The book is handsomely bound, with a holiday 
look about it.— Brooklyn Eagle, Sept. 1.5. 

Street & Smith of New York publish in cloth cover “Another Man’s 
Wife,” by Bertha M. Clay. The story is effective. It impre»sively dei)icts 
the results certain to attend the sins of deception. It teaches a lesson that 
will not be lost upon those thoughtless men and women who, only intent 
upon pleasure, little dream of the pitfall before them, and to which they are 
blind until exposure wrecks happiness. — Troy (N. T.) Press. 

Street & Smith, New York, have brought out in book-form “Another 
Man’s Wife.” ITiis is one of Bertha M. Clay’s mo.st effective stories.— 
Cincinnati Enquirer. 

“Another Man’s Wife.” This is one of Bertha M. Clay’s most effective 
stories. It forciblv and impressibly portrays the evils certain to attend 
matrimonial deceit, clandestine interviews, and all the tricks and devices 
which imperil a wife’s honor. It has a novel and entranciugly interesting 
plot, and abounds in vivid and dramatic incidents. It is the first issue of 
Street & Smith’s Primrose Edition of Copyright Novels, and will not appear 
elsewhere. — Fi'anklin Freeman. 


BEN NAMED: 

OR, 

THE OHILDKEN OF FATE. 


By STLYANUS COBB, Jr. 


Street& Smith’s Sea and Shore Series, No.8. 

Fx'lce, as Oexxts. 


WHAT THE PRESS SAY OF IT. 

•‘Ben Hanied” is an Oriental romance, by Sylvanus Cobb, which recalls 
the deligntlul stories of the “Arabian Nights,” without their supernatural 
etfects. Indeed, our old friend Haroun A1 Raschid figures prominently in 
this work, and is closely identified with the hero and heroine— the devoted 
Assad and the fair Morgiaua. It is a romance of pure love, with an in- 
genious and cleverly sustained plot.— Grand Jtajnds Democrat, Aug. ."i. 

“Ben Hamed” is the title of an Oriental romance not unlike the stories of 
the “Arabian Nights.” It is a romance of pure love. A number of strong 
characters combine with the hero and heroine in the solution of an ingenious 
Harrisburg Patriot, July 23. 

Street & Smith of New York have published “Ben Hamed ; or. The Chil- 
dren of Fate,” by Sylvanus Cobb, Jr., which is No. 8 of the Sea and Shoue 
Series This book is an Oriental romance, which recalls the “Arabian 
Nights.” without their supernatural effects. The plot is ingenious and well 
sustained, and brings out a romance of pure love m a charming manner.— 
’■^ISan Francisco Morning Call, July 21. 

“Ben Hamed” is an Oriental romance by Sylvanus Cobb, Jr., published in 
paper by Street & Smith, New York city. It is clever in the way that all of 
Cobb’s stories are clever * — JudiUHupoUs Ncws^ July 20* 

“Ben Hamed is a capital story, progressive in action, interesting from 
the opening line, and witli a charming love romance, on which are strung 
many remarkable incidents . — Acton iilcir, July 21. 

A cav.i.al story of Eastern life, which must have been suggested by a 
^ lAffiloh Arohi-iTi Nitrhts ” is Sylvanus Cobb’s Oriental narrative of 
‘^^BeirH^mec ; o^The cSdrS of F^te.’’ It is admirablj' told, full of in- 
terest ami cannot fail to charm all who begin its perusal. - JIo>i/a«a 

Sun, Sept. 22. , ..t. 

Street & Smith, of the New York Weekly, have published “Ben 
Hamed -o? The Children of Fate,” by Sylvanus Cobb. Jr. This is an 
Oriental romance, accentuated by a very strong and ingenious plot. St. 
Paul Pioneer Press, July 2k 

Street & Smith, New York, publish in paper covers “Ben Hamed, an 
nriPnmfroVuallce by Syl^ Cobb, which recalls the delightful stories of 
the “Arabian Nights,” without their supernatural effects. Cincmnah 

^ ^“Ben Hamed ” an Oriental romance, by Sylvanus Cobb, is published by 
o* Vpw ^rk It is one of Cobb’s characteristic romances. 

Street * p^dth. New Yor^^ r/rominent li^gure. There is nothing strained or 
Haroun Al Raschid leing the stories of the “Arabian Nights,” 

S!it"u.TtlSr supmSai eS July 21. 


POPULAR AMERICAN COPYRICHT NOVELS, 

BY NOTABLE AUTHORS. 


P^o. -a. 



F. 


W; 


OR, 


THE WEAVEK’S WAB. 


By PROFESSOR WM. HENRY PECK, 

AUTHOR OF 

“Marlin Marduke,” “£15,000 Reward,” “Siballa, 
the Sorceress,” etc. 


From the very opening paragrapli this powerful and intensely exciting 
romance enchains the attention and keeps curiosity constantly active. The 
scene opens in the manufacturing center of Lyons, during a troublesome 
period in her history, when the laboring classes strove to maintain their 
rights against the nobility. The hero, whom fate has made an humble 
workman, finds opportunity for the display of those self-asserting qualities, 
which always force their possessor to the front in every contest. While 
most of the action is thrilling and dramatic, a captivating love episode is 
adroitly interwoven with the main thread of the romance. The mystery 
appertaining to the early life of the Locksmith, the appalling accusation 
which makes him the victim of unseen foes, his fortitude in the most trying 
positions, and his final vindication and reward, are forcibly and sympatheti- 
cally set forth in this well constructed story. 


RRICE,' S5 CKNTS, 


STREET & SMITH, Publisliers, 

P. O. Box, 2T34. 31 ROSE STREET, Neff Tork. 


Sea and Shore Series 


Stories of Strange Idventure Afloat and Astiora. 


ted MonlUy. PRICE, 25 CENTS EACH. FflUy Mstrated 


The above-named series is issued in clear, large type, uniform in size with 
*‘The Select Series,” and will consist of the most thrilling and 
ingeniously constructed stories, by popular and experienced writers in the 
field of fiction. The following books are now ready : 

17— fedora, founded on the famous play of the same name* 
by Victorieii Sardon. 

No. IG-SIBALLA, THE SORCERESS, by Prof. Win. H. Peck. 
No. 15— THE GOLDEN EAGLE, by Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. 

No. 14-THE FORTUNE-TELLER OF NEW ORLEANS, by 
Prof. Will. Henry Peck. ^ 

No. 13-THE IRISH WONTE CRISTO ABROAD, by Alex. 
Robertson, M. D. 

Vo. 12-HELD FOR RANSOM, by Lieutenant Murray. 

No. 11-THE IRISH MONTE CRISTO’S SEARCH, by Alex. 
Robertson, M. D. 

No. 10— LA TOSCA, from the celebrated play, by Victorlen 
Sardou. 

No. 9-THE MAN IN BLUE, by Mary A. Denison. 

No. 8— BEN HAMED, by Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. 

No. 7-CONFESSIONS OF LINSKA. 

No. 6 — THE MASKED LADY, by Lieutenant Murray. 

No. 6— THEODORA, from the celebrated play, by Victorien 
Sardou. 

No. 4-THE LOCKSMITH OF LYONS, by Prof. Wm. 
Henry Peck. 

No. 3-THE BROWN PRINCESS, by Mrs. M. Y. Victor. 

No. 2-THE SILVER SHIP, by Lewis Leon. 

No. 1-AN IRISH MONTE CRISTO. 


For sale by all Booksellers and News Agents, or will be sent, POSTAGE 
FREE, to any address in the United States or Canada, on receipt of price, 
25 cents, by the publishers, 

STREET cfe SMITH, 

P. O. BOX 2734. 25-31 ROSE STREET, NEW YORK 


The Secret Service Series 

(3 S, S, S J 

Comprises the Best De tectivx. Ston es by ths Besi Authors. 

Issued Monthly, PRICE 25 CENTS EACH. FuUy Illustrated, 


This series is enjoying a larger sale than any similar senes ever 
published. None but American Authors are represented on our listj and 
the Books are all Copyrighted^ and can be had only in tlie SECRET 
SERVICE SERIES. Bound in Handsome Lithograph Covers. 


LATEST ISSUES: 

No. 29-THE POKER KING, by Marline Manly. 

No. 28-BOB YOUNGER’S FATE, hy Edwin S. Deane. 

No. 27-THE REVENUE DETECTIVE, hy PoUce Captain 
James. 

No. 2G-UNDER HIS THUMB, hy Donald J. McKenzie. 

No. 25 -THE NAVAL DETECTIVE’S CHASE, hy Ned Buntline. 
No. 24:-THE PRAIRIE DETECTIVE, hy Leander P. 
Richardson. 

No. 23-A MYSTERIOUS CASE, hy K. F. Hill. 

No. 22-THE SOCIETY DETECTIVE, hy Oscar Maitland. 

No. 21-THE AMERICAN MARQUIS, hy Nick Carter. 

No. 29-THE MYSTERY OF A MADSTONE, hy K. F. Hill. 

No. 19-THE SWORDSMAN OF WARSAW, hy Tony Pastor. 
No. 18-A WALL STREET HAUL, hy Nick Carter. 

No. 17 -THE OLD DETECTIVE’S PUPIL, hy Nick Carter. 
No. 16-THE MOUNTAINEER DETECTIVE, hy Clayton W% 
Cohh. 

No. 15-TOM AND JERRY, hy Tony Pastor. 

No. 14-THE DETECTIVE’S CLEW, hy ^‘Old Hutch.” 

No. 13-DARKE DARRELL, hy Frank H. Stauffer. 

No. 12-THE DOG DETECTIVE, hy Lieutenant Murray. 

No. 11-THE MALTESE CROSS, hy Eugene T. Sawyer. 

No. 10-THE POST-OFFICE DETECTIVE, hy Geo. W. Goode. 
No. 9-OLD MORTALITY, hy Young Baxter. 

No. 8-LITTLE LIGHTNING, hy Police Captain James. 

No. 7- -THE CHOSEN MAN, hy Judson R. Taylor. 

No. 6-OLD STONEWALL, hy Judson R. Taylor. 

No. 5-THE MASKED DETECTIVE, hy Judson R. Taylor. 

No. 4-THE TWIN DETECTIVES, hy K. F. Hill. 

No. 3- VAN, ^ THE GOVERNMENT DETECTIVE, hy ^^Old 
Sleuth.” 

No. 2-BRUCE ANGELO, hy ^^Old Sleuth.” 

No. 1-BRANT ADAMS, hy ^^Old Sleuth.” 


For sale by all Newsdealers, or will be sent by mail, post-paid, on receipt of price, 
26 cents each, by the Publishers, STREET & SMITH, 26-61 Rose Street, New Vork. 


The Log Cabin Library. 


Issued Every Thursday. Price, 10 Cents Each. 



McKenzie. 

No. 60-FRANK AND JESSE JAMW IN JIEXicdi’b^ W.* B^'LawloS. 

No. 49-THE YOUNGER BROTHER’S VOW, by Jack Shai-p. 

No. 48-THE OCEAN DETECTIVE, l)y Richard J. Storms. 

No. 47— THE BLACK RIDERS OF SANTOS, by Eugene T. Sawyer. 

No. 46-GOTH A.1I BY GASLIGHT, by Dan McGinty. 

No. 4O-M0UNTAIN TOM, by Ned Bnntline. 

No. 44 -PIGTAIL DEMONS, by Plarry Temple. 

No. 43— RED RUBE BURROWS- by Edwin S. Deane. 

No. 42-THE HATFIELD-McCOY VENDETTA, by W. B. Lawson 
No. 41-THE STONY POINT TRAGEDY, by A. L. Fogg. 

No. 40- THE GREAT RIVER MYSTERY, by Bartley CampbelL 
No. 39-BARNACLE BACKSTAY, by Ned Buntline. 

No. 38— ALF, THE CHICAGO SPORT, by Edward Minturn, 

No. 37— CY, THE RANGER, by Joseph E. Badger, Jr. 

No. 36— HIS HIGHEST STAKE, by Edwin 8. Deane. 

No. 3.5— BOB SINGLETONj by David Lowry. 

No. 34— KENTUCKY KATE, by Marline Manly. 

No. 33-THE ROAD AGENTS, by Leander P. Richardson. 

No. 32-KAMON ARANDA, THE CALIFORNIA DETECTIVE, by Eugene T. 
Sawyer. 

No. 31-THE HUMAN VAMPIRE, by K. F. Hill. 

No. 30— SHADOWED AND TRAPPED ; or, Harry the Sport, by Ned Buntline. 
No. 29-TnE LIGHTS O’ GOTHAM, by Ralph Royal. 

No. 28-THE GREAT YACHT RACE, by Marline Manly. 

No. 27-JACK, THE PEEPER, by Harry Temple. 

No. 26-HUGO, THE FIGHTER, by William H. Bushnell. 

No. 2.5-DA RROIV, THE FLOATING DETECTIVE, by Ned Buntline. 

No. 24-THE SHANGHAIER OF GREENWICH STREET, by Henry Deering. 

No. 23-PHENOMENAL PAUL, THE WIZARD PITCHER OP THE LEAGUE, by 
John Warden. 


No. 22-OLD MAN HOWE, by Win. O. Stoddard. 

No. 21— CATTLE KATE, by Lieutenant Carlton. 

No. 20-GUISEPPE, THE WEASEL, bv Eugene T. Sawyer. 

No. 19-LOUISVlLLE LUKE, THE JOCKEY WONDER, by Jack Howard. 

No. 18-THE OYSTER PIRATES, by Eugene T. Sawyer. 

No. 17-SILVER MASK, by Delta Calaveras. 

No. 16-THE JOHNSTOWN HERO, by Marline Manly. 

No. 1.5-THE GREAT CRONIN MYSTERY, hy Mark Merrick, Esq. 

No. 14-DIAMOND DICK IN ARIZONA, by Delta Calaveras. 

No. 13-HARRY LOVELL, THE GENTLEMAN RIDER, by Sherwood Stanley. 
No. 12-THE MINER DETECTIVE, hy Ned Buntline. 

No. 11-THE OKLAHOMA DETECTIVE, by Old Broadbrim. 

No. 10 -THE GOLD-HUNTER DETECTIVE, by Marline JManly. 

No. 9— THE IRISH JUDAS; or. The Great Conspiracy Against Parnell, by 
Clarence Clancool. 

No. 8-BTLL TREDEGAR, A Tale of the Moonshiners, by Ned Buntliue. 

No. 7— THE PINERY DEN DETECTIVE, by Mark Merrick, Esq. 

No. 6— CAPTAIN KATE, by Leander P. Richardson. 

No. 6-THE WHITE CAP DETECTIY'E, by Marline Manly. 

No. 4-JESSE, THE OUTLAW, A Story of the James Boys, by Captain Jake 
. Sbaehleford. 

No. 8-St:VEN PICKED MEN, by Judson R. Taylor. 

No. 2— THE KEWANEE BANK ROBBERY, by J. R. Musick. 

No. 1— THE WHITE CAPS, by Marline Mauly. 


For sale by all Newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, post- 
paid, on receipt of price, 10 cents each, by 

Street & Smith, Publishers, 

P. O. BOX 2734. 25-31 ROSE STREET, NEW YORK. 


The Nugget Library. 

ISSUED EVERY THURSDAY. PRICE, 5 CENTS EACH. 


No. 30— McGlNTY’S DOUBLE, by CorneUus Shea. 

No. 29— SMART ALECK ’WAY DOWN EAST, by Frank. 

No. 28-McGINTY’S CHRISTENING, by Cornelius Sbea. 

No. 27— McGINTY’S BOARDING-HOUSE, by Cornelius Shea. 

No. 26— HIS ROYAL NIBS, by John F. Cowan. 

No. 25— SMART ALECK IN BOSTON, by Frank. 

No. 24— BILLY MAINE, THE SHARPER, by Walter Fenton. 

No. 23— McGINTY’S TWINS, by Cornelius Shea. 

No. 22— PHIL AND HIS TORPEDO BOAT, by Harry St. George. 

No. 21-McGINTY’S GAMBOLS, by Cornelius Shea. 

No. 20-THE MYSTERY AT RAHWAY, by Chester F. Baird. 

No. 19-STANLEY’S BOY COURIER, by The Old Showman. 

No. 18-DIAMOND DICK’S CLAIM, by W. B. Lawson. 

No. 17-DIAMOND DICK’S DEATH TRAIL, by W. B. Lawson. 

No. 16-D ASHING DIAMOND DICK, by W. B. Lawson. 

No. 16-SMART ALECK ON HIS TRAVELS, by Frank. 

No. 14-SMART ALECK’S SUCCESS, bj Frank. 

No. 13-THE SEARCH FOR CAPTAIN kIDD, by Col Juan Lewis. 

No. 12-MECHINET, THE FRENCH DEIECTIVE, by Francis A. Durivage. 

No. 11— BOSS OF LONG HORN CAMP; or, A Fortune for a Ransom, by A. C. 
Mouson. 

No. 10— BASE-BALL BOB ; or, The King of the Third Base, by Edward T. 
Taggard (Paul Pryor). 

No. 9-YOUNG SANTEE, THE BOOTBLACK PRINCE ; or. The Boy Wizard of 
the Bowery, by Raymond Clyde. 

No. 8— NED HAMILTON ; or. The Boys of Bassington School, byFletcher Cowan. 
No. 7— THE CRIMSON TRAiL ; or. On Custer’s Last War-Path, by Buffalo Bill. 

No. 6— THE FLOATING ACADEMY ; or. The Terrible Secrets of Doctor Switchein’s 
School-Ship, by Dash Dale. 

No. 6-NIMBLE NIP, THE CALL-BOY OP THE OLYMPIC THEATER, by John 
A. Mack. 

No. 4-THE GAYEST BOY IN NEW YORK; or, Adventures by Gaslight, by 

Dash Kingston. 

No. 8— BOUNCER BROWN ; or. He Was Bound to Find HIs Fatlier, by Com- 
modore Ah-Look. 

No. 2— UNDER THE GULP ; or, The Strange Voyage of the Torpedo Boat, by 

Harry St. George. 

No. 1— SMART ALECK ; or, A Crank’s Legacy, by Frank. 


For sale by all Newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, post- 
paid, on receipt of price, O cents cach^ by the publishers, 

STREET & SMITH, 

P. 0* Box 27S4:* 26-81 Rose Street^ New York. 



THE FINEST ON EARTH 


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Married Foreioners oF ]’Fii]k 

ILMSTKATEI) WITH ARMOllIVL BEAUIXGS. 


!STi2iEii:"r ^ !^]Mi ru>s 

HAND-BOOK LIBRARY— NO. 3, 

lE^rico 0O Ooxxt:s- 


So^\E Opinions of the Press: 


The title of this voluijuMs DOt snllicieiitly for besides all it prouiises it 

ue^leets to aiiuouuet: tiiut there is alst) a list of available noblt iiien who have have not 
vet entered the state of luatriiiiony, and to wliouj, presumably, American beauty backed 
by American g*old may successfully ai>peal.— A*. 1" lieralO, MareJi 16. 

Th<‘ book is remarkably complete and is valuable as a reference, in addition to be- 
ing* decidedly interestiim'*. -A'. y. \Vo*'l<i, March 

The. book gives all the attainable fa(ds and tivures concerniug rich American girls 
w'ho have niarried foreigners of more or less distinction.— A'. I' Miirch\A, 

In fact “ Titled Americans” is a book that should be in the bauds of each unmanned 
femahi in this country, and from it slie should learn the glorious destiny that she may 
achieve.— M eekU/. 


It furnishes a ga'eat deal of information, wliich will be valuable for nTerence, con- 
cerning American ladies who liave married titled foreigmu’s.— on Saturdau tkcniifo 
Gazette. „ 

Of course American “g*entlemen” cannot “come in” when such a book is produced. 
They will have to wait until some century when women rule EuroiK^ and carry all the 
purchasable titles in their own Yi^hi.—HrookUni Dmhj Eaole. 

Embraced in this carefully compiled book, which is vastly entertaining in its way. 
are i>ersonal sketches of all tiie bachef./r iJeers of Britain. W a take it that the morai of 
the work for our American maidens is, “ Oo thou and do likewise,” and that its mission 
is to show^ them where and how.— Boston Tivu's. 


Hen* is a volume for which young* American w omen w ill be truly g*rat(*ful. It con- 
tains the names of two hundred and five American eirls who have marned foreigiici*s. 
This of coni*se vi*ry exciting n ading, and will i»rol)ably keen many girls awake at 
night, planning* to go and do likewise .— liidle ?//, AJtorn 15. 


“Titled Americans” is a valuable and nni(ine work of considei'al le labor and ex- 
pense, and something every person in society will be interested im— A. J' Kienhio 
Ti'li\u'wais March 18. 

Str(*et I'y Smith have issued a rather unique book, but one that, in these days when 
titled foreic-uiers are gobbling up and carrying* oft so many American la lles and rich 
girls, will not be without tise for x^^Xirv\\co.—Drtroit Trihnne. 

The only book of the kind ever publislied 'I'lns is an interesting* and nni(iuework 
of considerable labor and c-xiamse, and something luany society iwople will be interesb d 
in us it gdves a comjdete re<wd to date of all An>eri'. an ladies \ ho have marri(*d titled 
foreig-ners, illustrated with their armorial l)tarings. \onng ladies traveling abroad 
should not fail to s(‘<u]r(‘ a copy as it will bt‘ of great assistaiict* in regulating tlu'ir heart 
strings.— EVnr/i a Teieomm. 


If anything were needed to crystallize the craze of some American women for titled 
husband^ it has lu'en pru\ided in this v^-ritalle hand-book for marriav-eable maidens 
and -unbitious widow's. It will doubtless be liidden away in some se(Tet corner of the 
boudoir or carried off in the traveling trunk across the 0 (‘ean, to he consulted, 
cherishtVl and studied ; while the names of more than two hundred Ameiican women 
wTio Irive sn(*cessfnlly huiitt^d down the titled gaire will arouse tl?e en\.>' and liasteii t)ie 
palpitation of many a hnshand-huntiiig aspirant to weudeti piivileges. A. 1'. Satardao 
Jlerlei>\ Mid'ch H. 



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